


The Fifth

by themantlingdark



Series: Yggdrasil [2]
Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-13 19:19:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16898421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themantlingdark/pseuds/themantlingdark
Summary: Technically the prequel to The Sixth, but written much later.Odin sends his unborn sons to different mothers in Midgard, hoping the boys will lead safe, happy, separate lives there. Thor becomes a meteorologist. Loki is a calligrapher. They meet at an art exhibit. Thor could swear they've met before.





	The Fifth

1 Convergence

 

On the first turn it happens much as Midgard's myths claim, and Odin realizes Loki is not meant to be his blood brother.

On the second, Odin does not take Laufey's son from Jotunheim.

Thor's first word is “Loki.”

When he's older he tells his parents of his best friend – a blue-skinned boy of his own age. But no one else can see Thor's companion and he seems to talk to the empty air and laugh at its unheard answers.

Asgard thinks its prince is mad.

Odin knows better.

Thor's shoulders grow broad but it only makes his arms feel more empty, for he cannot hold the handsome man who haunts his steps.

His citizens have no sympathy for him.

He follows his friend out into the shimmering silence of the stars and the severed spirits finally find peace.

Odin tears down the realms.

On the third, the boys grow up together, but they keep their secrets too well.

Thor marries Sif.

Loki's heart breaks.

He bends all his will toward destruction, because if he can't have Thor's love then he'll take everything else.

The brothers battle for eons, churning through the skies and seas, tearing at each other until there is nothing left of them.

On the fourth, Thor gives his life to save Loki from Malekith.

Loki gives his life to destroy the elf. He saves the realms in the process, but that was never the point – his goal was to escape his grief and end the one who gave it to him.

Odin greets the brothers in Valhalla. And he knows he should be happy for them, but they were so young. And they had no children.

Still, the All-Father's eye can't miss how his sons' hearts are lighter in death than they ever were in life. Their eyes dance as they walk through golden halls laughing and talking. Their knees touch under the table as they sit drinking and feasting.

They remain side by side until the tree falls.

On the fifth...

Thor stands in front of the green screen and watches himself on the monitor. He reads off the weather predictions he made as he gestures to the storm front that's meant to be displayed behind him. When Anne, the camera woman, gives him the customary nod to let him know he's in the clear, he starts to undo his tie and walks as briskly as he's able to his office. He hangs his suit jacket on the back of the door, drapes his tie around its collar, shrugs on a hoodie, grabs his umbrella, and sprints to the stairwell. His feet are a blur as he descends, skipping over the last four steps on every flight and leaping onto the landing. He clings to the bannister and uses it to wheel himself around the turns. Everyone else is lazy and uses the lift, so he's in no danger of bumping into anybody. He can have his fun with gravity for a few minutes.

It's five seventeen pm. The British Library closes at eight on Tuesdays, so he'll have a decent span of time to take in the show. It's his only chance. The exhibition, Royal Manuscripts: The Genius of Illumination, ends today. He only heard about it yesterday, from Ken, so he's lucky to still have the option of seeing it at all.

When he crashes out onto the sidewalk, he's met by an unmoving mass of traffic and he sighs. Cabs are as good as parked. He stands, frowning for a moment and weighing his options. He can outrun the tube, but it's a long run. Five miles. He'd be a sweaty gasping mess and there would be a thousand pedestrians in his path. So he opts for the underground, though the sprint through the dregs of daylight holds more physical appeal. He hates being underground. He already misses most of the sun while he's stuck inside at work. It makes him tired all day while simultaneously making it harder for him to sleep at night.

He loosely holds a pole with his left hand on the off chance he loses his balance while he musses his hair with his right. He refuses to cut it short, so the studio's stylist slicks it back and sprays it until it's very nearly a helmet. He thinks it looks ridiculous like that, but the station is convinced he'll be taken more seriously if he's groomed within an inch of his life. He thinks he should be taken seriously because he always gets the weather forecast right and that is his job. Looking respectable on camera strikes him as irrelevant. And offensive. When he scratches his forehead, it feels like the skin is coming off under his fingernail, and he realizes he forgot to take off his makeup. His face will be an unnatural shade of orange until he gets home and scrubs away the industrial strength MAC that they spackle him with to make him look rosy and flawless under the studio lights and the unforgiving gaze of the high def camera lens. In the meantime, he pulls his hair forward and lets it fall around his face in the hope that no one will recognize him.

The gallery is nearly deserted when Thor gets there. He wonders if the ten quid ticket price dissuaded other visitors or if it's merely that they've all trickled out to seek their dinners. Soon Thor can only hear one set of footsteps that aren't his own. The lights are low to protect the fragile pages from excessive bleaching. Everything is set in clear cubic cases to keep away greasy fingers and the strain of breath and breezes. Even the spotlights are fairly dim.

Thor is amazed by the size of the manuscripts. He always thought the reproductions in art history books were close to the scale of the originals. But some of these books are over two feet tall, and the span of their pages when open is over three feet. The letters are large and elaborate. The gold is still so bright it looks new. There are a few small prayer books meant for individuals to carry with them and use throughout the day, but most of the books are massive. And the language is strange. Foreign to him in its old forms. Some of the words are still recognizable, but for the most part he can only read the letters themselves. Occasionally, the ornamental nature of the script makes even that much comprehension a struggle. And the images are fantastically whimsical. Knights in bright armor advancing on dragons that look like a cross between and snake and a wolf, often with the legs of an eagle. They're remarkably reminiscent of dinosaurs. It all makes Thor feel small and young. A rarity these days. He gets lost in the endless scrolls of blossoming branches that fill the pages beyond the central images.

He tries to give the other library guest a wide berth, seeing no sense in crowding the pale gentleman dressed in black who is very slowly making his way through the room. He doesn't notice at first when, half an hour later, the paths they're both following through the exhibit overlap. It isn't until he hears a tiny hum of pleasure that he realizes there's a tall body beside his own with a long nose nearly pressed against the glass as large eyes try to get as close to the book as they're able.

Thor takes in the the sharp angle of the man's jaw and the glossy arcs of black hair that frame his face. The man's coat is good. Fine wool and a flattering cut. Thor doesn't remember the particulars of his own appearance until the man turns to stare back at him, and then it's too late. But it immediately ceases to matter.

Thor's face splits into the broadest smile it has ever borne, because the face in front of him is familiar.

“Hello,” Thor says, shaking his head and laughing. “It's wonderful to see you again. Sorry - I can't remember your name.”

“Does that line usually work for you?”

The voice is smooth and rough at once. Cold and warm. Inviting despite its disdain. Thor can't entirely stop smiling.

“Haven't we met?”

The black brows furrow and the rosy lips draw straight and tight. Thor notes that it's not a no.

The man walks on toward the next book in its plexiglass prison.

“Er du norsk?” Thor says, and the man goes still. Are you Norwegian?

“Ja,” the stranger whispers, almost to himself. Yes.

“Jeg er fra Sandvika,” Thor says, and sees the dark head shaking no before the man turns toward him again, frowning still. I'm from Sandvika.

“Jeg er fra Bergen,” the man says. I'm from Bergen.

Thor hums and shrugs.

“Kanskje vi møtte som childrenn.” Maybe we met as children.

“Kanskje,” the man answers, nodding faintly, but his tone is doubtful. Maybe.

“Thor,” Thor says, offering his hand.

“Loki,” the stranger replies, taking Thor's hand in his own and shaking it with chilly ink-stained fingers.

“You're teasing me,” Thor says, with a disappointed smile.

“No.”

Thor's eyebrows ascend briefly in surprise before sagging into a more relaxed and affable angle.

Their hands are still held between them and they both stare down at the them. Neither loosens their grip.

“Do you illuminate manuscripts, then?” Thor tries, curious about the black stains on the pale fingers that are pressed in his own. He tips their hands so that Loki's is on top and then he runs his thumb over a dried smear of ink.

“Not much call for that these days. I do calligraphy. For weddings, mostly. The invitations, vows, place cards – sometimes even the thank you notes. Every now and again there's a commission for an award. The odd of coat arms. Sometimes a quote to hang on the wall. Lately people like to use me for Halloween posters and party invites because they think old scripts look spooky. But weddings are my bread and butter.”

Thor nods.

“And you?” Loki asks.

“Meteorology.”

Loki raises his eyebrows at this.

“Could I have my hand back now?” Loki says.

“Sorry,” Thor laughs, and relinquishes his grip on Loki's fingers. “How long have you been in London?”

“It's going on twenty years now. You?”

“Seven years. Came for uni.”

“You sound native.”

“Thank you,” Thor smiles. “I used to practice with Miramax and Merchant Ivory films.”

“I remember watching The Wings of the Dove with my mum when it came out. All those blue gowns. Gorgeous.”

“Such a sad one.”

“We watch movies for the costumes in my house.”

“Edith Head,” Thor says.

“A goddess, as far as my mother is concerned.”

And then Loki smiles, nods politely, turns, and continues on his path. Thor is moving clockwise and Loki is doing the opposite, looking at everything Thor has already seen. Thor doesn't want to be a pest, but he doesn't want to lose this man to London's masses, either. He listens to Loki's footsteps as he continues on his own path. Loki is moving slowly, so Thor sets a pace to match him, hoping they'll leave together.

Now, when Thor looks at the pages he pictures Loki's slim fingers dragging the script over the stretched skin with the edge of a feather. Trimming the quill with a tiny knife to keep its edge sharp. He imagines the ink drying a bit faster beneath the warm breath that's puffing out onto it from lips that are parted in a coaxing sort of concentration, as though they could bend the pigment to their will with the right words.

When Thor has completed his circuit, he trains his ear on the gallery floor but hears nothing. He turns and lets himself look, hoping Loki is merely parked in front of a favorite piece, lost in its intricacies. But the gallery is empty. The men's washroom is empty, too, and Thor feels like a bastard for checking, but he knows he'll be left wondering and wishing he had done it for the rest of his life if he skips it. He consoles himself with the thought that Loki is a rare enough name – and calligraphy an uncommon enough profession – that he should be able to find the man again.

Thor gets his umbrella from the cloak room and says goodnight to the bored young woman with the attractive asymmetrical haircut who's stuck there running it.

The time passed quickly. Thor would have wagered only an hour had gone by, but it was more than two. The library closes in fifteen minutes. Thor's stomach growls, and he's grateful it waited until he was out of the gallery, where the sound would have reached Loki's ears quite easily.

Thor fiddles with the snap on his umbrella and nearly walks out without stopping, having already written off the chances of seeing Loki again, but when he looks up to reach for the door, he sees a tall dark figure in his peripheral vision.

“Waiting out the rain?” Thor asks, and Loki nods. “In that case, you'll be here until four in the morning.”

“Oh, for fuck's sake,” Loki sighs.

“Tube?”

“Yeah.”

“I'll take you,” Thor offers, gesturing at his umbrella, and Loki nods and follows.

Thor holds the umbrella low between them in his left hand as they step out into the drizzle. The stale stink of all the trash, exhaust, piss, vomit, dog shit, and spoiled milk from spilled coffee that lingered on the streets and sidewalks all through winter has finally been rinsed away. Now there's a green scent in the air all the time. Warmth coming up from the ground. The soft squelch of sod under your shoe if you step onto a lawn. But the damp gives the chill teeth, and it will bite if you've been out in it too long.

Loki slips his hand up Thor's arm, nearly in his armpit, keeping Thor close and warming his fingers in the process. Thor smiles.

Once they're underground, Thor closes and shakes his umbrella and wishes he were walking Loki all the way home so that the fingers around his arm could have remained there. Their absence is unbalancing him now.

When they climb up into the car, they find standing room only, and just one free handle. Loki doesn't even look at it. Thor takes it with his right arm and Loki steps in front of him and slips his left arm around Thor's waist, between his unzipped hoodie and his white button-down. Thor can feel Loki's fingers gently scratching the small of his back in a slow rhythm through the thin layer of cotton. Four strokes, one after the other, beginning with his pinky and ending with his index finger, over and over. Their chests bump together pleasantly as their bodies sway with the motions of the car. Thor watches the soft round eyes that are across from his own. Their long black lashes make a demure screen as they gaze at a point somewhere below Thor's chin. Perhaps his Adam's apple. Maybe the base of his throat. Thor can't be certain.

“Where's your stop?” Thor says. “I'll walk you to your door.”

Loki's eyes look up and Thor feels like he could fall into them. Like his feet have already left the floor and he's being swallowed by the sea-green gaze.

“I was thinking we could just go to yours,” Loki says, leaning closer, and Thor nods once and goes back to staring at the face that's now staring back at his.

Loki takes Thor's arm again as they walk up the steps and out onto the street. The streetlamps reflect off the wet pavers and make the night brighter than it would be on a dry day. It lets Thor see Loki's face a little better than he expects. The sharp jaw is grimly set. The look of strained determination makes no sense to Thor, and he wonders if the man is going to try to blackmail him, not realizing that Thor is very much out, in both his personal and professional lives. Then Thor wonders if perhaps Loki is in the closet and afraid of being seen.

Thor's neighborhood is a bit forbidding. Rusty. Industrial. Made of old businesses, factories, and warehouses that have been converted into flats. The area is favored by artists and musicians because the spaces make for spacious studios and everyone's too young and loud themselves to give a damn about other people making noise.

They take the stairs up to Thor's fifth floor flat. Thor trails his left hand out behind him as they ascend and Loki takes the bait, warming his cold fingers in the heat of Thor's offered palm. They listen to the tapping of damp leather soles on the grit of concrete steps as it echoes down the stairwell. Neither of them is the least bit winded when they reach the top and turn the corner to Thor's door. Thor lets them in and flips on the kitchen light, then bends to set his open umbrella on the floor so it will dry.

Loki takes a few steps and goes still, staring at the far end of the flat. It looks to Thor as though his guest has seen something odd.

“All right?” Thor asks, and Loki nods slowly and starts shrugging off his coat.

Thor hangs it up for him and they take off their shoes. Loki unwinds his scarf and hands it to Thor and Thor can feel the heat of Loki's skin trapped in the silvery green silk. He wonders if Loki deliberately bought a garment that matched his eyes or if someone gave it to him because the resemblance reminded them of him. Loki's throat keeps catching Thor's eye now that it's exposed. Long and pale. Creamy. The drag of Thor's half-day-old stubble would likely be enough to scrape it up, leaving pink patches on the warm canvas. And Thor's lips could suck vicious-looking bruises over the muscles in the neck.

Thor's flat is the smallest unit in the building because it's on the top floor and half of it is given over to a rooftop patio. The southern wall of the apartment is almost entirely glass, looking out onto the garden that Thor has made of the outdoor space. To the right of the door is a large closet and a tiny laundry nook. To the left of the entry is the kitchen. There's an island with four chairs around it, but no dining room. In the center of the place is a huge couch and a pair of chairs around a coffee table. The sofa faces a television that's mounted on the outer wall of the bathroom, which fills the back left corner of the flat. Thor's bed occupies the back right, next to the window. There are no blinds or curtains.

“Don't you feel exposed?” Loki asks.

“I've got film on the outside of the glass to keep the birds from flying into it. Holds in the heat and keeps the neighbors from seeing through.”

The floor is sandstone throughout, in rectangular blocks of all sizes with a rough natural finish. Thor and Loki let their stocking feet follow the contours of the stone as they walk, gripping the edges of the slabs with the pads of their toes. The rugs are thick, and the scent of their wool fills the flat, especially on humid days like this, so that there's a hint of wet sheep and damp cotton in the air. Loki steps onto the long runner that leads from the entry all the way back to Thor's bed, passing the low bookcases in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows that span the right side of the room. Thor can see Loki digging his toes into the thick pile of the carpet, shifting the pale pink and camel patterns, as Loki bends to peek at the contents of the bookshelves. History. Mythology. Geology. Meteorology. Biology. Oceanography. But mostly Ornithology. There are three framed photographs: a man building a boat; a woman looking up from her book; the same two people together, smiling.

“Hungry? Thirsty?” Thor calls, and Loki nods and pads back to the kitchen to watch as Thor turns the oven on and grabs a round baking sheet from a cupboard. Loki is surprised when Thor grabs a tub of vanilla ice cream from the freezer, puts two heaping scoops into a blender, adds coffee liqueur and light rum, mixes it all together in the machine, and then pours it out into two low tumblers.

“What's this?” Loki asks, taking the offered drink.

“Hummer,” Thor says. “Detroit-born cocktail. Officially, anyway. But I'm pretty sure everyone who likes rum has come up with the same idea on their own during a hot day.”

“You like rum?”

“I do,” Thor nods. “It's smooth. Sugary. A little spicy. Mixes well. And I have a sweet tooth.”

“I see,” Loki says, smiling after his first sip, and Thor grins and swipes away the cream that's lining Loki's upper lip, then sucks it off his own fingertip.

“Mmm. Pardon me a sec,” Thor says, and heads to the loo to wipe off what's left of his makeup.

“How old are you?” Loki asks, when Thor returns, surprised at how young Thor looks with his face so bare.

Thor's mind always goes blank at this question and he has to picture his driving licence.

“I'll be twenty-five next week.”

Loki's eyebrows leap at this.

“What day?” Loki asks.

“The twentieth.”

“Your birthday is twentieth march, nineteen eighty-seven?”

“Yep.”

“You're taking the piss,” Loki says. “What did you do? Pick my pocket?”

“What?”

Loki presses his back pocket. He heaves a secret sigh of relief when he finds his wallet still in it, then pulls it out, and removes his licence. He holds the card up in front of Thor's face and Thor reads the whole thing twice before Loki's accusation means anything to him.

“It's your birthday, too,” Thor breathes, then looks at Loki and smiles brightly. “We should have a party.”

“Lemme see your licence,” Loki says, narrowing his eyes, playful but not joking, and Thor goes to get his wallet from the bowl on the console by the door. He opens and offers it and with the same smile that he's wearing in the tiny photo.

Loki's mouth falls open a bit as he reads it.

20-3-87 NORWAY

“I'll be damned,” Loki breathes.

“It'll be Tuesday again,” Thor says.

“What are the chances?” Loki whispers, still staring at the tiny card.

“We really should celebrate,” Thor continues, gently. “Nothing ever happens on Tuesday nights. We could split a cake and a bottle of champagne – or, no, fuck it, nothing ever happens on Wednesday mornings either – two cakes and four bottles of champagne. Stay up all night watching Knight and Day and both of the Kill Bills.

“I love Knight and Day,” Loki admits. “Best bloody romantic comedy to come out in ages.”

“I know,” Thor nods, grinning. “Talk about pleasant surprises.”

“I try not to love Tom Cruise, but it's fucking hopeless,” Loki sighs, and his thin lips twist into a lovely little moue that makes Thor's stomach flutter.

“He's an irresistible bastard,” Thor agrees, laughing, then heads to the oven to check the temperature. He pulls a pizza from the freezer, pops it into the oven, and sets the timer for fifteen minutes.

“So, why meteorology?” Loki asks, and Thor tips his head and bites his lip as he weighs his answer for a minute.

“I came by it backward, in a way. Always knew what the weather was going to do. Like I could smell it or something. Feel it against my skin. So I already had all the answers... and I wanted to try to figure out how the hell I arrived at them. Took the classes. Studied the systems.” Thor shakes his head. “I'm still more accurate than the computers' models. And I still don't know why.”

“Maybe the chaos of the mind is a better predictor of something as chaotic as the weather,” Loki offers, and Thor smiles.

“Wasn't a total waste of time though – got me a job.”

“And why London?” Loki asks.

“Always felt a pull,” Thor answers, shrugging slowly. “So many histories overlaid on such a small piece of earth. So many armies converging. Such old bones. And so much to see and do. Norway is more beautiful, though. I miss it. It has a better balance of hard and soft.”

Loki hums and nods.

“What about you?” Thor asks.

“Mum had been working in fashion since she finished uni. She got an offer from British Vogue. Took it. Worked her way up to creative director. Dad and I came with her. He's a photographer, so he can do that anywhere.”

“Did they meet through work?” Thor asks.

“Yeah. Met on a shoot back when they were first getting started,” Loki answers, nodding and tossing back the last of his drink.

“Another?” Thor asks.

“Maybe after supper.”

Thor gets them water to drink in the meantime, ice cold from a pitcher kept in the fridge.

“And your parents?” Loki asks.

“Still there. I came alone. Got restless. They're happy where they are. Dad builds boats by hand. Takes him years. But they're basically a work of art when he's finished, and his buyers know it. He does well. It was rough getting started, though, because its a long time to go between paychecks, but his reputation is solid now. These days he has to turn jobs down more often than not, which is a nice place to be. Mum's a professor. Teaches anthropology at Universitetet i Oslo and she's read more books than God.”

“Get back often?”

“Go up every summer. Mum's off, and Dad can always use an extra set of hands. You?”

“We go back to visit my grandparents and aunts and cousins every now and again.”

Thor watches Loki's throat moving as he takes a long pull of water. His jaw is relaxed now, and his forehead is smooth. His lips are smiling slightly. When he sets down his glass, Thor steps closer and backs him up against the island in the center of the kitchen, resting his hands on the butcher-block counter top on either side of Loki's hips and then leaning in to press the tips of their noses together.

“Your hair's gone all wavy with the rain,” Thor says, raising a hand to arrange the shiny jumble of loose black curls.

Loki's eyes close when Thor's fingers brush his skin, skating over his left temple and ear before coming to rest very lightly on the back of his neck. Thor's thumb is tucked behind the bend of Loki's jaw, stroking it faintly. When Loki looks, Thor's eyes are waiting for him. He tips his head in invitation, and Thor leans in and kisses him softly at the left corner of his lips. The timer on the oven goes off before Thor can do it again.

“Damn,” Loki huffs, and Thor laughs in answer as he puts on a giant red mitt, pulls their dinner out of the oven, and sets it on the stove top.

“It has to cool for a bit,” Thor says, and steps back in front of Loki, then hugs him playfully, still wearing the oven mitt. They sway together and Thor hums against Loki's neck, mouthing it gently and nosing the hair behind Loki's ear. He squeezes Loki tighter when he feels Loki's arms come up to wrap around his waist. They keep slowly shifting their weight from hip to hip, dancing without lifting their feet. Loki rests his head on Thor's shoulder and Thor buries his face in Loki's hair until his nose is pressed to Loki's nape. He breathes in the scents of rain, old books, citrus shampoo, spicy cologne, and wool that are overlaid on Loki's own scent. The rich perfume of the scalp. The dry keratin smell of hair, akin to wool, but woodier, somehow. And then Loki's stomach gurgles and Thor can feel the flesh quivering where their bodies are pressed together.

“Sorry,” Loki laughs. “Haven't eaten since noon. Been at the library all day. Famished.”

Thor gives Loki a parting peck on the lips and then pulls out plates and napkins, slides the pizza straight onto the wooden counter top, grabs a knife that could easily qualify as a sword, and slices the pie into a dozen pieces.

“How'd you get into calligraphy?” Thor asks, between bites.

Loki hums, finishes chewing, and swallows before he answers.

“Mum was always getting handwritten invitations to parties and weddings - from peers, socialites, celebrities and all that. Always in different scripts. She'd let me keep them. I'd copy them. Been doing it since I was about nine, I guess,” Loki says, squinting at the memory, then shaking his head at the passage of time. “It's like the books we saw today. I always love finding something perfect that was made without the aid of a machine. And the papers are so gorgeous. The whole thing feels so old and visceral and intimate. Stamps, mail, postmarks, ink, stationery. I don't want it to die out. So I make sure it still gets done. And it's a soothing thing to do. Quiet. Precise. Repetitive.”

“I think you and my dad were cut from the same cloth,” Thor says, smiling and enjoying the way the warmth of the kitchen light lends a hint of honey to Loki's milky skin.

After dinner, they settle on the sofa with fresh cocktails to watch Point Break. Only Thor doesn't really try to watch. He puts his right arm around Loki from the start and Loki sags into Thor's side, smiling and sipping his drink. Thor's cocktail is sitting on his own thigh, held loosely in his left hand, forgotten. When Loki's hummer is finished, he steals Thor's, though it's gotten a bit warm. Still, rum and ice cream are a winning combination and Loki makes short work of it. Thor ends up playing with Loki's hair for the length of the film, running his fingers through it and rubbing Loki's scalp. Watching Loki's eyes close when he likes something. Seeing Loki's head shift with the motions of his fingers. Loving the way his fingers vanish amid the dense black curls.

When the credits come on, Thor switches off the TV and the room floods with the sound of the rain that's still drumming on the roof and tapping at the windowpanes. Thor settles back into the couch again and Loki turns to look at him, smiling and patting his lap. Thor heaves his legs up and slings them across Loki's thighs, shuffling forward and leaning in for a kiss. Loki grabs him under the knees and behind the neck and hauls him closer and they laugh into their kisses. Thor tugs the neckline of Loki's t-shirt off to the side, exposing his left shoulder, then kisses the taut skin, marveling at its smoothness. He glides his lips over it, dragging them in every direction and finding no flaws before following the collarbone down to the base of the throat and then stretching his jaw wide to take in the entirety of the Adam's apple. He moans against it and Loki moans back, making Thor's lips buzz and tickle, which sets him laughing and twitching. He sags against Loki with a sigh and butts their foreheads up against each other.

“I hope your dad takes masses of pictures of you,” Thor says.

“Well, you're in luck there. Mum and I are his most frequent victims.”

“Good. Has he shot your shoulders?”

“I don't think so. Certainly not bare.”

“Well, he needs to.”

“Does he?”

“Mmmhmm,” Thor nods, and dips his head to kiss Loki's left deltoid again.

“I'll give him the message,” Loki says, and his voice is like a sigh and a smile all at once. “Used to model,” Loki murmurs. “Still do, sometimes, if someone cancels or pulls a no-show at one of Dad's shoots – or one of Mum's. Ever pick up a copy of Vogue? Maybe that's why you recognized me. I'm one of the waify tits with a dead-eyed stare wearing posh clothes on a deconstructed sofa in last September's issue.”

Thor laughs and shakes his head no.

They trade kisses and talk music, blurting out the names of their favorite dance songs whenever their lips are free to form words. When Loki gets up to use the loo, Thor goes to his dresser to grab pajamas for his guest.

“Those are for you,” Thor says, pulling on an ancient Pet Shop Boys t-shirt and jerking his head in the direction of the slumped stack of jersey that's perched on the edge of the bed.

Loki makes no move to put them on. He stands, frozen, in the bathroom doorway.

“I can sleep on the sofa and you can take the bed,” Thor offers, quickly. “Or vice versa. I don't want to chuck you out into the rain. But if you'd like to be getting home, you can borrow my umbrella and I can call you cab.”

Loki's shoulders loosen at this. He cocks his ear at the ceiling and a thunder clap greets him. He huffs a laugh and takes the pajamas back into the bathroom to change. Thor smiles at him when he emerges, clad in clothes that are just a tad too long and too wide, like a little brother wearing the hand-me-downs of a husky sibling.

“Need anything?” Thor asks, as he settles into the bed, stretching out on his back with his arms behind his head.

“I stole some of your mouthwash,” Loki confesses, slipping in beside him and then fitting himself under Thor's arm.

“Steal whatever you like,” Thor says, and kisses Loki's forehead.

“Nothing below the belt tonight, yeah?” Loki whispers, and Thor nods.

“I was thinking maybe we could give sleeping a go. I have to get up in four hours.”

“Eeeugh,” Loki says, feigning a shudder. “That's inhumane. You should seek self-employment.”

“Any suggestions?”

“Got a good webcam?” Loki asks, and Thor snorts and knocks their heads together before saying goodnight.

Thor has to ease himself out of Loki's arms when his alarm goes off what feels like seconds later. Loki makes an unhappy noise but stays under, so Thor leaves the lights off as he slips into his sweats and running shoes. He does his stretches on the landing of the stairwell, then heads down to the street to jog through the sleeping city. The rain has stopped but the pavement is wet, and the slaps of his feet against the concrete are softened by the water. He takes the first mile at an easy pace, knowing his partner will be doing the same. When they meet at the halfway point between their flats, they nod hello and set their stopwatches. Then they line their toes up at the seam in the cement, count down from five, and sprint across London's heavy eyelids for all they're worth.

After the runners have had their recovery-coffee, Thor buys a bag of beans to bring back home so that he can grind them up and brew a pot for Loki. The baristas working today have both been at the café for over six months and have grown accustomed to the two alarmingly handsome blonds who appear nearly every weekday morning, bright eyed and bushy-tailed, order enormous coffees, tip generously, and then leave them the fuck alone. Thor knows it makes Steve feel more at ease to be ignored, too, and he's grown more fond of privacy himself with the passing of each year. It's a relief to be treated like a stranger – like an anybody - and have no expectations placed upon you as you try to go about your day.

As they step out of the café and onto the street, Steve hooks Thor's arm with his own and raises an eyebrow at him.

“I see congratulations are in order,” Steve says, and Thor rolls his eyes.

“How could you tell?”

“Did you get dressed in the dark? You look like you're wearing a ruby necklace.”

“Shit,” Thor laughs. “Ken's gonna kill me when he sees it. I'll have to go in to see him early so he can conceal it all. And, yeah, actually, I did get dressed in the dark. My guest was still sleeping.”

“Ooooh. He's still there? Has England lost its most eligible bachelor?”

“I hope so,” Thor grins.

“I'll give her my condolences.”

“Like hell. You'll just tell Bucky and he'll give me no end of shit.”

“Yep,” Steve agrees.

“You're texting him right now, aren't you? I can see your hand wiggling in your pocket.”

Steve smiles and pats Thor's back in farewell.

“Tosser,” Thor calls.

“Kiss him for me,” Steve says, walking backward and winking, then turning toward his flat and loping away at an easy pace.

Thor's phone chimes with a text where it's strapped to his arm and he sighs.

**Bucky:** what's their name?

**Thor:** steve rogers. been after me 4 ages. can't stand to see him cry. great kisser. nice bum.

**Bucky:** u wanna tell me, or u want me to find out on my own?

**Thor:** i've known him 12 hours. can't i have 1 day of peace?

**Bucky:** i can b @ ur place b4 u if i take steve's bike.

**Thor:** it's loki. ur such a cunt istg.

There's a three second pause before Thor's phone chimes again.

**Bucky:** calligrapher?

**Thor:** fuck u barnes.

When Thor gets back, he grinds and brews the coffee, setting the machine to keep it warm. He showers and takes a look at himself in the mirror afterward. The hickeys are ridiculous. He wishes he could get away with wearing an ascot all day just to spare Ken the trouble of having to hide all the love bites. He puts on a suit and button-down combo that he knows will work onscreen and grabs a broad necktie. He's hopeful that if he ties it in a heavy knot it will keep his collar tightly in place so that half of the hickeys will be obscured.

He wonders if he should leave a note as he stares at the slim body that's still buried beneath his bed sheets. Almost as pale as the cotton. Fragile. Oblivious. Defenseless. And safe. Thor wonders if Loki knows that last bit. If it's why he stayed. Or if Loki is being reckless with himself. Careless. He seemed alarmed at the offer of pajamas and a place to stay. Thor hopes that's a sign of self-preservation.

And he asked that we keep things above the belt, Thor remembers.

But that could mean a thousand things.

Maybe he's already in a relationship and there are rules about what he's allowed to do beyond it.

Maybe he doesn't want to do anything risky with someone he might never see again.

Maybe he had an ugly experience with some arsehole and he's still getting over it.

Maybe he has an STI that he doesn't want to talk about with someone he isn't sure he's interested in.

Maybe he's shy.

Maybe he's trans and doesn't want to put himself in danger, not knowing where I stand.

Maybe he likes to take things slow.

Maybe he's under a doctor's orders and can't engage in strenuous activities until he's recovered.

Maybe he's ace.

Maybe he's impotent.

Maybe he was tired.

Maybe he just wasn't in the mood.

Maybe he isn't all that attracted to me.

Thor leans over the bed to tell Loki goodbye and is glad to see pale eyes opening and pink lips puckering up at him. He feels fingers threading through his hair and pulling his head in tight for a deeper kiss. Thor hums as their tongues twist and glide back and forth between their teeth, then moans a disappointed sigh into the mouth beneath his own.

“I have to go to work,” Thor laments. “But you can stay here as long as you like. Help yourself to whatever you want. There's coffee. The front door locks on its own, so make sure you don't get locked out before you mean to.”

Loki hums and nods and pulls Thor down into a parting kiss before curling up on his side and going to sleep again.

Thor slips a piece of paper with his name, address, e-mail, and phone number into Loki's coat pocket as he heads out the door.

At work, Thor wonders if he's being ridiculous. Leaving a stranger alone in his home. But there's nothing there that's really worth anything to him. His passport and papers are in a safe in his closet. And he knows Loki's name. If anything weird were to happen, he'd know who had done it. Still, objectively, it's probably a bit odd. And it could easily be over already and Thor just doesn't know it yet. It could have been nothing from the start. Thor knows it's ridiculous to hope to come home and find Loki right where he left him. Loki is probably behind from spending yesterday at the library. Probably has to work late tonight to make up for it. At best, it would be sensible to dream of seeing him tomorrow. But sensibility would be a waste of dreams.

On his lunch break he finds Loki's website. There are precise explanations of the requirements for placing orders. Charts of the estimated time needed to complete orders based on quantity and design. There's a calendar listing the openings that are available – booked solid through September. Nothing personal on the pages anywhere, though. No pictures of Loki and no business address. No biography or CV. Just high quality photos of examples of his work, an email address, FAQs, and a mobile number.

When five o'clock finally comes, Thor hurries again, but remembers to take his makeup off before he heads out to huddle up on the tube with his fellow sardines, stuffed shoulder-to shoulder, swaying at the turns in the over-sized tin.

He runs up the five flights of steps to his flat and glides his key into the lock on muscle memory, no longer needing to look. His eyes go straight back to his bed, but even in the failing orange light from the window Thor can tell that it's empty. His umbrella is still open on the floor in the entryway, tented like it's waiting to shelter tiny beach-goers. He stands still, listening. The bathroom door is open and the light is off. He looks out into the garden, but it's barren. Not even a bird. The sun will be down in half an hour, though, so it's no surprise that they've flown off to roost for the night. Thor knows he shouldn't wish the days away, but he longs for the equinox and the lengthening of daylight as it draws near. For gardens blooming, warm breezes, and birdsong.

He hangs his coat and looks at the counter top, hoping to see a note, but finds only pizza crumbs, cloudy tumblers, empty plates, and a coffee mug. There's no message stuck to the fridge with the candy-shaped magnets that are scattered on its door. In the bathroom there's just more of nothing again. The pajamas he lent Loki are folded and stacked on the foot of the bed where they started, but now the jersey is slightly stretched from the bony knees that were bending it all night. The bed itself is still unmade, at least, and it feels like a mercy. Thor can see where the blankets are bunched and gathered from the weight of the body that rested on them. There's a single strand of long dark hair on Thor's pillow. Thor is pleased to have this thin line of black, like ink on his sheets. Evidence. Cells. A piece of a person he might never see again that he can keep without any risk of injury to him. He picks up the strand and puts it in his copy of Audubon's The Birds of America,laying it beside the plate depicting the pair of Passenger Pigeons, thinking of another beautiful being who is most likely lost to him forever.

He takes off his suit and lets himself stretch out on the bed for a minute, breathing in what's left of the scent of Loki's skin. The proof that will be lost to laundry detergent and the brush of his own limbs. Then he sighs, drags out his mat, and gets down on the floor to do the crunches, planks, and push-ups he skipped this morning.

He makes himself a chicken salad for dinner, but, in one of the bouts of stubborn optimism that have come to characterize his existence, he leaves off the onions and vinaigrette: he doesn't want them on his breath in case he lucks into more of Loki's kisses later. And, anyway, it's no skin off his nose. Afterward, he does the washing up with a vague sense of loss - and even greater reluctance than usual - knowing that he's costing himself more pieces of the night that came before.

He waffles about taking a shower. If Loki texts or rings or buzzes his doorbell while he's in there, he probably won't hear it. But he'd rather not be sweaty and panting if he has company. He turns the sound on his phone all the way up and takes the fastest shower of his life. He'd wager even Steve and Bucky aren't this efficient. He checks his phone as soon as his hands are dry, but there's no text and no missed call. He rushes into his pajamas and walks out onto his patio, bending over the wall at its edge to peer down on the street below, hoping to spy a slim figure by the doorway. But he's disappointed again. Only cars and strangers, all small and oddly foreshortened. The air is cold on Thor's damp skin and he feels goosebumps rising on all his flesh, so he gives up and goes back inside.

He flops on his back on the couch and flips through the book of Julie Mehretu's drawings that he bought himself for Christmas. He wishes he could afford one of her paintings, but he knows that even if he could he'd have no place to put it. They're too big. They're a comfort to him, though, when he visits them in museums – or even when he stares at tiny reproductions in catalogs. They feel like they're in his language. Layered and obscured. Dense and sprawling. Worlds and histories are condensed and compressed as smoothly as time is warped by dreams.

Thor jumps when his doorbell buzzes. It will be one of two men with big pale eyes, long dark hair, and deep pink lips: Bucky, come to tell him things neither of them has any business knowing about Loki; or Loki himself, come for who-knows-what, but Thor hopes kisses. He hurries up off the sofa and steals a glance at the clock – almost eight - then presses the button on the wall by the door.

“Hello?” Thor says, leaning down to speak into the mic.

“Brought you more ice cream. You were getting low after the drinks last night.”

The voice is rendered unrecognizable by the tinny rasp of the speakers, but Thor knows who the words belong to.

“Come on up,” Thor says, pressing the button to unlock the main door and hoping he doesn't look too ridiculous. He can tell the hair on the back of his head is mussed from lying on the couch, but he doesn't have time to fix it. He's in his pajamas already, and he's worried Loki will think he woke him or that he's come too late in the day and that he'll leave as soon as he's delivered his gift. Thor can hear the footsteps echoing up the stairwell now, so he opens his door and looks to the landing, waiting for the tall figure to glide around the corner.

“Hi,” Thor says, smiling and taking the paper sack from the outstretched arm. “Come in. I can fix us some drinks if you're up for it.”

Loki's cheeks are a bit rosy with the chilly night air and the flush of brisk walking. Thor recognizes the name of the grocer that's printed on the bag and realizes Loki walked at least that far, if not all the way from his flat.

“Hot toddy now and maybe hummers once you've warmed up?” Thor asks.

“That'd be lovely,” Loki nods, hanging his things in Thor's closet and toeing off his shoes.

Thor makes tea. Drizzles honey into two mugs. Pours in some rum. Slices a lemon and puts pretty wheels of citrus into the cups. Adds the tea and gives it all a stir. They each hum at their first sip and settle onto the stools that line the counter.

“Sleep all right?” Thor asks, and Loki nods, smiling around the rim of his drink.

“Overslept, but it was worth it. Haven't indulged in ages. Had to work a bit late to make up for it though. Sorry to drop in on you so late.”

“It's fine,” Thor says, feeling his cheeks go faintly pink with his grin and hoping Loki will chalk it up to the rum if he catches it.

The air is dry and cold, and Loki's hair is straighter today, falling in smooth arcs around his face. It makes him look older and thinner. Thor prefers the curls. He's glad it's going to be a wet spring; the humidity will give him what he wants.

“You didn't tell me you're the weatherman,” Loki says, and Thor huffs and shrugs, but he's secretly pleased that Loki looked him up. Most members of Thor's generation don't recognize him because they get their news from their phones. Thor is more popular among people his parents' age or older, who still watch the weather report on the telly.

“There are huge betting pools,” Loki continues. “People trying to guess the day you'll finally cock it up.”

“You want a piece of the action?” Thor asks. “I can throw the game for you. Name the day.”

Loki grins.

“Have you seen the blogs?” Loki asks, and Thor sighs, because he has. “Some are obsessed with your smile. Some with your eyes. Some with your wardrobe. Some with your hands. And they all wonder what's going on under those suits.”

“Well, we don't choose the bodies we're born in,” Thor says, staring down into his drink.

“No, we certainly don't,” Loki breathes, nodding, and they're both quiet for a beat. “If we did, we'd all look like you,” Loki says, leaning over to nudge Thor with his shoulder.

“Be awfully dull, I think,” Thor muses. “Half of us would have to look like you to keep things interesting.”

Loki elbows him lightly, but ducks his head to hide his smile behind his hair.

“Are you caught up with your work?” Thor asks, and gets a nod in answer. “Could I take you dancing some time? I know a place that plays a lot of the music you said you like.”

Thor sees Loki frown a little.

“I do love dancing,” Loki says. “But I've come to hate the clubs. People act like showing up on a dance floor is some kind of consent. I've had them grab my arse and grope my crotch. It's literally illegal, and for a good fucking reason. And it's bloody epidemic,” Loki boggles, shaking his head. “Got so angry I thought about bringing a knife along and gutting the next man who grabbed me. Realized that was... problematic. So I just stopped going.”

“Yeah,” Thor nods, frowning. “I know. And then all the decent blokes are at home and it's just tossers in the clubs.”

“The wankers win.”

“Way of the world,” Thor murmurs, and Loki shifts his drink to his left hand so that he can hold Thor's hand with his right, rubbing the knuckles with the pad of his thumb.

“We could dance here,” Thor says, turning to look at Loki, who cocks his head, stares him in the eye for a minute, then smiles softly and nods, tipping back the last of his drink.

Thor pauses for a minute to queue up some music and then leads Loki over to the long rug in front of the windows where they won't have to worry about smashing their shins on the coffee table and the thick carpet will cushion their heels from the stone. Through the speakers, Loki can hear a crowd cheering and their voices growing stronger and greater in number. Then comes a roll of drums that's almost military. Floating in on its heels is an accordion, of all things, before the crowd starts screaming at the sight of the singer. She breathes a long and unexpectedly sexy shhhhh into the microphone. And Loki knows this song. Siouxsie and the Banshees. The Last Beat of My Heart. It's one of his favorites. He listened to it while he fixed his hair before he left to come here. It feels like his life has just looped back on itself.

“Thought we could start slow and work our way up in tempo,” Thor says, holding his left hand up for Loki to take. Loki does, then slips his own left arm around Thor's waist. Thor rests his right hand on Loki's left shoulder and they slowly sway and spin, picking up their pace and lengthening their strides as the song begins to swell. They catch and carry and lead and follow, bearing each other's weight with their arms when their momentum tries to pull them apart.

More drums as the next track comes in, then synth and bright guitar. If you didn't know better, you'd swear it was early New Order.

“Oh, fuck off,” Loki laughs. “No one listens to The Mary Onettes.”

“Fuck you - I love The Mary Onettes.”

“Det Vackra Livet?”

“Oh, fuck yes,” Thor moans. “Top ten favorite albums of all time, easy.”

“I hate having to settle for Swedish dream pop, but Norway's stuff just doesn't cut it.”

“I know,” Thor grins. “But I can still make out more than half the words, so it doesn't feel like a total betrayal.”

Loki laughs again and they dance to Lost, swinging their hair in front of their faces and shimmying their shoulders.

I Wanna Be Adored comes on next and the bass and beat are stronger. The pace is swirling, based on the wheels of an old locomotive, begging their bodies to come closer and bump together. Thor lifts Loki up into the air at the chorus and spins with him held above his head. When he looks, he can see all of Loki's teeth smiling down on him like a crescent moon.

Hot Chip's One Life Stand has them separating slightly so that they can move more wildly and show off for each other a little, twisting, thrusting, bouncing, and twirling.

The synth that opens SexyBack has Loki laughing out loud, then pointing at the door and gasping, “Get out,” but he can't take his eyes off of Thor, in his pajamas, spinning and smiling and biting his lip, dipping and grinding against the air. Tossing his hair and letting the blond strands roll across his face, peering out from behind them and catching Loki's eye.

Take Me Out sends them both leaping high up into the air, thrashing their heads, and clapping their hands.

Then it's Echo and the Bunnymen with the swooning Ocean Rain, and they're both grateful for the break. They lean heavily on each other, panting humid breaths against the hot skin of each other's necks and swaying without shifting their feet. Thor lifts Loki's hair off of his forehead and smooths it back, feeling clean sweat coating his palm and wanting to lick it off.

“Drink?” Thor asks, and Loki hums a yes and heads to the kitchen. Thor puts Det Vackra Livet on low in the background, winning him another of Loki's smiles.

He pours two glasses of ice water and then fixes them hummers. They both sigh through their noses as the cold cream hits their tongues and chills their throats, slowing their hearts and their breaths.

“Didn't realize how much I'd missed that,” Loki admits.

They finish their cocktails in the kitchen and take their water with them to the couch. Thor takes one of the cushions off the back and lays it in front of an armrest like a pillow, then sits at the opposite end of the sofa and pats his lap. Loki stretches out and sets his feet on Thor's thighs. He falls asleep while Thor rubs his arches and only wakes an hour later when Thor gets up to use the loo.

“Sorry,” Loki yawns, when Thor comes back.

“You're fine,” Thor soothes. “Can I get you anything?”

“You can rub my feet for the rest of my life, if you're offering.”

“Think we could find someone to sponsor it?”

“Webcam.”

“That's your answer for everything.”

Loki smiles and stares up at Thor, soft and lovely in his sleepwear, with his hair wild from dancing.

“What time do you usually go to bed on weeknights?” Loki asks.

“Anywhere between eight and two,” Thor shrugs. “You?”

“Between one and four, but usually two-ish.”

Thor sits down again and kneads the ball of Loki's left foot.

“I should let you sleep,” Loki says, still boneless on the sofa.

“You can stay again if you like,” Thor offers, looking up at Loki through the hair that's hanging in front of his face and leaving his lips slightly parted as he awaits his answer.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks,” Loki smiles, and then closes his eyes, letting himself drift while Thor's thumbs do something wonderful to his toes.

Ten minutes later, Thor gives Loki's ankles a light squeeze and watches Loki's lashes flutter open.

“Want me to bring you a blanket so you can stay here, or would you rather sleep in a proper bed?”

“Bed, if I may.”

“'Course.”

Thor offers his hand and helps Loki up off the couch, then heads over to set his bedding to rights while Loki slips into the bath to steal more mouthwash and change into last night's pajamas.

Thor lies on his side in bed, curled toward the center, and waits for his companion, wiggling his toes with the pleasant nervousness of anticipation. When Loki comes out of the loo, he switches off the light and then settles into the mattress mirroring Thor.

“Thanks for coming tonight. And thanks for the ice cream,” Thor says.

“Thanks for the drinks and the dancing.”

“My pleasure,” Thor breathes. He reaches to lay his hand on top of Loki's where it's resting on the bed between them and Loki spreads his fingers so that Thor can thread his own through them. They trade light presses of each other's palms while their bodies relax, freed from the worries of balance, blood pressure, and the bulk of gravity. Loki leans forward until his lips are flush with Thor's, then puckers them in a smacking kiss. He can feel Thor's fingers tightening faintly around his own, then the bed shifts slightly as Thor leans in to kiss Loki's cheek and nip the corner of his mouth. The pillow sinks as Thor sags and settles with his forehead butted up against Loki's. They both let the breath breeze out of their lungs in slow, deep gusts that pour across each other's throats. They can hear each other blinking and breathing. Hear the faint sounds of London on the street below - the gassy whistle of lorries braking and the dull roar of engines as clusters of cars resume their course when the light goes green.

And Thor has changed his mind. He doesn't want more daylight. Ever. He wants this night to stretch out to last the rest of his life. Preferably longer. He wants to gather Loki up and tuck him under his ribs to curl around his heart.

Thursday morning is a facsimile of Wednesday, though Thor's love bites have largely faded and he's sorry to see them go. And today Steve teases him all through their coffee break - “Distracted?” “Somewhere you'd rather be?” “Coming down with something, maybe? You look a little flushed.” “Need to call in sick and stay home in bed?” “Bucky's diagnosis is that you've got a bad case of Handsome Calligrapher.” “Bucky's prescription is also Handsome Calligrapher.”

“How the hell did Bucky find out he's handsome?” Thor sighs, slumped against the upholstery of an overstuffed wing-back chair, staring helplessly at the ceiling and shaking his head.

Thor leaves Loki sleeping in his flat again. On his lunch break, he runs out to a chemist and picks up an extra toothbrush and stick of deodorant.

Loki texts Thor at four that afternoon, asking if it would be all right it he dropped in around eight again. Thor says yes.

That night, they put on Aliens but largely ignore it in favor of kissing. Loki sits sideways on Thor's lap and twines his arms around his neck and they roll their heads together for hours. When they come up for air, Thor can see that there are a few long strands of wavy orange fur clinging to Loki's shins.

“You have a dog?” Thor asks, bright-eyed and delighted.

“Yeah. She lives with Mum and Dad, though. Too many stairs at mine. And they've a proper garden.”

“What's her name?”

“Ruffian, but we call her Ruffy.”

Loki is smiling and rosy. Blushing with pride and enthusiasm.

“Small,” Thor says.

“Only up to my knees,” Loki nods.

“Puppy?”

“Ten years old already,” Loki sighs, shaking his head. “Mix. Looks like a sturdy gold fox. Purple tongue.”

“Chow in her.”

“Mmmm,” Loki confirms.

“She's known you since you were fifteen, then?”

“Yep.”

“Adores you.”

“She does.”

Thor gives a hum of approval and rocks Loki in his arms.

Friday night, they go out to dinner and then walk back to Thor's place with bellies full of korma. They dance to all of Electric Warrior and then collapse in Thor's bed where they lie in a heap, planning their weekend.

They opt to visit museums after they both admit to being addicted to the things.

“I like to pretend I live there,” Loki confesses. “That it's all mine.”

Thor nods, laughing low in his breast.

“I like to hear my footsteps echoing up to the ceiling,” Thor says. “Always wear shoes with hard soles so they'll make a good tap.” Loki nods in agreement, as he's in the same habit. He stares at Thor's profile and reaches to pet and prod Thor's double chin. “Can you imagine touching all that stuff on a daily basis?” Thor murmurs. “Living with it? Using it as it was intended? Those insane silver soup tureens... the crystal goblets... the gilt books... the sideboards... the porcelain.”

“Wearing all that Roman gold,” Loki moans.

“And Scythian,” Thor agrees. “And Egyptian.”

“So, we're knocking over art museums all weekend, then?” Loki asks, yawning.

“Mmhmm.”

“Excellent.”

On Sunday evening, Loki leaves to have dinner with his parents, and Thor uses the time to make up for all the eating, sleeping, and not-running-with-Steve he did over the weekend. He works out for three hours, fearful of getting too big for his suits and being forced to go through the hassle of being fitted for new ones.

Loki comes back after he's done at his folks', and Thor's heart gloats in his chest as they curl up together like spoons in his bed. It's the closest their bodies have ever been, with Thor's front pressed to Loki's back and Loki tugging Thor's right arm tight against his own chest like he's wrapping a man-shaped blanket around himself for warmth.

Thor wants to quit his job when his alarm goes off Monday morning.

Tuesday, they follow through with the birthday plan that Thor set forth the week before: cakes, champagne, and movies. They start with the drinks, because the champagne would taste bitter after the sweetness of the desserts. Then they nibble their way through the cakes, each sitting on the sofa with a little white box on their lap and a fork in their hand, watching Cruise, Diaz, and Thurman kick arse.

A week later, Thor gives Loki the spare key to his place. They've spent every night in it together since they met, and Thor wants to encourage that trend.

After that, Loki often shows up in Thor's kitchen with dinner in tow. But sometimes he doesn't get there until after midnight, and then he makes straight for the loo, changes into pajamas, and slips into bed where Thor lies waiting, holding up the blankets in invitation.

When Loki is busy with a big order or off visiting his parents, Thor works in his garden, scrubbing out bird feeders and baths and filling them afresh. Putting fresh soil, peat moss, and fertilizer on top of roots that are starting to show. Planting annuals. Pruning his potted rose hedge. Setting out suet cakes in wire cages and impaling bruised fruit - from the reduced bin at the market – on tree branches. Afterward, he sits in an old wicker chair, wearing a heavy sweater and filthy faded jeans, half-reading a book as he watches his birds trickle back. They dart around like painted air, investigating the nesting boxes and birdseed he has on offer. Barking at him with their miniature voices, trying to shoo him back into his flat because they don't yet remember - or perhaps haven't decided - whether it's safe to trust him. They'll be used to him again by the end of the month, though, and then they'll shout to tell him to come out and fill their feeders.

 

2 Coincidence

 

Two months after they've met, Loki has to work through the weekend, so Thor decides to surprise him. He packs salads and sandwiches and the pretty slices of cheesecake he picked up at a bakery and then takes a cab to Loki's flat, pressing the buzzer and waiting on the pavement, enjoying the sunlight on the top of his head and watching the buds on a hedge row bobbing in the breeze.

“Hello?”

“It's just me,” Thor says, leaning in toward the intercom. “Brought you lunch.”

Thor waits, but the lock doesn't click open to let him in.

Thirty seconds later, Loki appears in the foyer and opens the door, standing in the gap wearing a black t-shirt and dark jeans, barefoot and frowning.

“Sorry,” Thor says. “I should have texted. Wanted to surprise you.”

“How do you know where I live? I'm not listed.”

“You made me read your driving licence the day we met,” Thor says, and Loki's mouth falls open.

Thor stares. Loki still looks unhappy. He's shielding himself with the door, holding it open only wide enough that his view out is unobstructed. He's gripping the knob tightly in his right hand and bracing his left forearm on the jamb as if he might need to slam it closed in a hurry.

“Sorry. Here,” Thor says, shaking himself but still looking a bit unsettled as he offers the lunch he brought. “I'll let you get back to it. Didn't mean to intrude. Should have known better - I'm basically barging into your office, after all.”

Thor smiles and dips his head in farewell, then turns to walk back toward his flat.

He can't help wondering if he interrupted more than work. They haven't talked about being exclusive. Thor has just been assuming that they are since they spend every night together in his bed. But maybe there's someone else up there. Or maybe it's a client and he just made Loki look disorganized and unprofessional. Or maybe he interrupted Loki in the middle of something elaborate and undid hours of effort in the process. He swears quietly at himself and stuffs his hands in his pockets.

“Thor!” Loki shouts, and Thor stops and turns, but keeps walking backward.

“Sorry,” Thor calls. “Won't happen again.”

“Come up and have lunch. You packed enough for two.”

Thor stops for a beat and then reverses his course, moving close enough that they won't have to raise their voices.

“You can have it for dinner,” Thor says.

“Come up,” Loki says, standing back and holding the door open wide.

“You sure?”

“Yes. Come on. Please. My toes are getting cold.”

When Thor steps inside Loki's flat, he goes still. The layout is identical to his own, minus the patio. Kitchen first, then living area, with the bedroom and bathroom at the back and windows all along the right. Lots of light in the afternoon. But where Thor has your typical living room set-up, Loki has one comfy chair against the left wall and a giant work-table with a rolling stool where the rest of the furniture would be.

“Great minds think alike,” Thor winks, and Loki smiles and nods and goes to the cupboards to fetch plates and cutlery.

“Pardon the mess,” Loki says, opening the sack and divesting the sandwiches of their waxed-paper wrappers.

The mess is a lie. It's merely that Loki is in the middle of a large batch of invitations, so there are rectangular pieces of paper everywhere.

“Mind if I take a peek?” Thor asks, inching hopefully toward Loki's worktop.

“Not at all. They're trying to keep the details a secret, though, so mum's the word, yeah?”

Thor nods, recognizing the names on the invitations, and then stares at the flawless flowing script.

“Ever see George Washington's penmanship?” Thor asks, straightening and padding back to the kitchen.

“Yes,” Loki moans. “Un. Fucking. Believable.”

“I felt like a failure as a human being the first time I saw it,” Thor agrees.

Loki kisses him goodbye after they eat, and Thor feels a little better as he heads home, but he's still discomfited. Loki looked at him like they were enemies. Worse than strangers. Thor racks his brain for the rest of the day, trying to pinpoint his misstep, but nothing stands out in his mind - apart from showing up uninvited - so he resigns himself to asking Loki for the answer the next time they're together.

Which turns out to be twelve hours later when Loki lets himself in Thor's door. Thor is up watching Winged Migration when Loki plops down beside him on the couch and leans over to pop a kiss on his cheek.

“Order going all right?” Thor asks, switching off the television and turning toward Loki.

“Mmmhmm.”

“You all right?”

“Fine. Why?”

“You weren't happy to see me this afternoon,” Thor says. “Was it just the showing up uninvited, or was that part of it, or was it something else altogether?”

Loki sighs and then stares down at Thor's chest, but his eyes aren't focused there. His lips are curled in oddly, held between his teeth, and his nostrils are slightly flared. His forehead is furrowed and his shoulders are stiffly curled forward. Finally he sniffs – in a way meant to check that his airways are unobstructed - and tips his head up to meet Thor's eyes.

“It's a long story,” Loki says, softly. Slowly. Cautiously. And Thor holds his breath as he waits to hear the rest of it. “Series of stories, really. And I'd like to tell them to you some day... and, if I do, I hope you'll understand why I didn't do it now. But, suffice it to say, the last time I had a bloke in my flat, it ended with hand-prints on my throat, a black eye, a bloody lip, and a bruise on the back of my head from where it collided with the wall - breathe, Thor.”

Thor does. Deep and fast.

“Shhh,” Loki soothes, threading his fingers through the hair past Thor's temples and then leaning forward to rest their foreheads together. “If it's any consolation, I smashed his bollocks so hard he had to go to A&E, and I dragged him – by the hair - down those three flights of cement stairs you saw earlier. Chucked him into the street. Called the police. Reported the whole thing.”

“Good,” Thor grunts, nodding. His eyes and nostrils are wide and his jaw is clenched.

“Felt nervous in my flat for ages afterward, though,” Loki admits, at a murmur. “Thought about moving. Worried he'd come back for me,” Loki shakes his head. “But it's perfect. I love it there. Didn't want to let that fucker ruin it for me.”

Thor nods.

Loki keeps petting Thor's head and playing with his hair until his features finally soften, then takes his hand and leads him back to bed to get changed and go to sleep.

In the morning, Thor is quiet. He tucks himself under Loki's left arm and lays his head on Loki's breast to listen to his heart. He stays that way for over an hour. Loki lets him. Thor sits even closer to him than usual as they breakfast. Follows him to the door like a shadow. Hugs him long and tight as they say their goodbyes.

By June, it's warm enough to leave the windows open. Thor's garden is an unexpected oasis. Unexpected to Loki, at least. The birds have known of it for years. An explosion of green amid the concrete rectangles of London's rooftops. A smorgasbord of seeds, fruits, suet, and bugs. And no risk of cats. Loki likes to eat out there in the evening on dry days, so Thor invests in a small bistro table with matching chairs and they sit with the sky and its children, sipping wine and eating roasted chicken.

They still sleep at Thor's every night. These days they just wear thin jersey shorts over boxers. They've kissed every inch of each other that lies above the navel and below the knees. They've had the health talk – clean – and the relationship talk – serious and exclusive. The sex talk is a delicate ongoing conversation. Thor will ask where he can put his hands, and Loki will either tell him or set them there himself. Tonight, Loki sets Thor's hands on his cotton-clad arse and Thor comes, untouched, in his boxers, overwhelmed at having something he's wanted for such a long time. Loki is so taken with Thor's enthusiasm that he stays awake for half an hour, stroking Thor's chest and beaming at him with a smitten grin while Thor pants and blinks back at him, sleepy and smiling. When they wake in the morning, they're still high on the memory of what happened the night before. Loki's kisses are wet and hungry, sucking Thor's tongue so hard it makes Thor groan. He catches Thor's lower lip in his teeth and lets it drag between them, roughing and reddening it. It makes Thor's breast heave and his arms squeeze Loki tight. Loki tosses his head back, gasping, as Thor sucks on his throat and raises bright blooms of red on the pale silk of his skin.

“Can I touch myself?” Loki pants, and Thor nods vigorously into his neck.

Loki loosens the drawstring on his bottoms, then licks his palm and fingers and slides his hand down the front of his boxers. Thor can see the muscles flexing and bunching in Loki's forearm as his fist bounces beneath the fabric. He looks up at Loki's face and then leans in to kiss him, lapping at his lips and seeing Loki's eyes flutter open in front of his own. The pupils are wide and they're struggling to focus.

“Oh, fuck, grab my arse,” Loki grits, arm working fast and neck straining. “Under my clothes.”

Thor moans and slides his left hand down Loki's back, following the spine with the tips of his fingers and then thrusting them under the waistband, grabbing a handful of Loki's smooth skin and giving it a firm stretching squeeze, separating his cheeks and kneading the meat. Loki shouts and his eyes roll back in his head as he stiffens in Thor's arms.

They lie panting while Loki recovers. He shifts his arm and spreads his legs slightly, then winces as he pulls his cupped hand out of his pants: his wrist is bitter about being held at such an awkward angle by the pressure of the elastic. He reaches for a tissue to wipe his fingers, but Thor can smell the semen on Loki's skin and he aches for it.

“In my mouth,” Thor begs. “Please.”

Loki takes a shaky breath, but nods and offers his hand.

Thor can see thick ropes of come that stretch like webbing between Loki's tapered fingertips. He puts all the slim digits in his mouth at once and laves them with his tongue, tracing and lapping them, then pulls them out to check his work before sucking them back in again, one after the other, until he's satisfied. He flattens his tongue against Loki's palm while Loki looks on with eyes that are every bit as hungry as Thor's mouth.

When Thor is finished, Loki wraps his arm low around Thor's waist and tugs him in tight.

“Taste all right?” Loki whispers, feeling the blond hair that's fallen over Thor's ear sticking to the beads of sweat that line his upper lip.

Thor hums into his neck.

“Delicious,” Thor sighs, nodding. “Like sex. Like you.”

Loki lets all the breath leave his lungs at once and then falls asleep for an hour in Thor's embrace.

It's the busiest time of year for Loki. The glut of summer weddings. The parade of pair after pair of hyphenated, adopted, or adapted names. The wedding invitations themselves are peaking, but in their wake there are endless shower invitations, place cards, and vows. It's the vows that drive Loki batty. People privileged enough to be able to take these promises for granted. So often using the same stale words. But every now and again someone will write something fantastic or reference something wonderful, and then it's like Christmas. But like Christmas seen through a window, from the outside looking in. Because Thor and Loki - and at least ten percent of England – are stuck with civil unions, which neither of them can bring themselves to take seriously. It isn't equality, so it's ultimately an insult. Second rate. Falling firmly in the latter camp of all or nothing. Still, Loki loves writing out the vows because they're long and formal and meant to be kept, so he gets to show off. And Thor loves to watch him do it. He looks on, entranced, as Loki's hand flows across the page and the tip of his index finger bends backward against the pen, lending a flourish to the digit that echoes the shapes of the letters it's writing. Thor marvels at the muscle-memory in Loki's skin. So many different scripts. All the measurements and precision. It looks like magic. Thor can stare for hours. These days he often does, because otherwise he'll barely get to see his boyfriend at all.

In the middle of the month, Thor's mum e-mails him a link to an article from a Norwegian news site that interviewed his father, and he forwards it to Loki, who's been increasingly curious about Thor's family. The post includes a photograph of Thor's dad posing next to one of his boats with the interviewer stood beside him.

When Loki comes over that night, he goes to the photos of Thor's parents that rest on the bookcases by the window.

“How tall is your dad?” Loki asks, staring at the portrait held in his hand.

“The top of his head comes to my chin,” Thor says. “Mum only comes up to my armpit.”

“You don't look a bit like them,” Loki laughs, looking at their round eyes and long noses. Their high, curved foreheads. The hints of red in their curly blond hair. Their pointed chins and slender necks. “Take after a granddad?”

“Dunno,” Thor shrugs, then laughs. “They found me on the doorstep. Kanskje jeg er en bytting.”

Maybe I'm a changeling.

Loki's hands are shaking faintly as he sets the frame back on the bookshelf. Thor watches, worried that Loki will drop it and send glass splintering into his stocking feet.

“You're joking,” Loki says, turning around to look at Thor, who's at the kitchen counter hulling strawberries.

“No,” Thor replies, staring steadily back at Loki, whose face is draining of color.

“You're adopted too,” Loki says, flatly, and his voice sounds slightly strained.

Thor nods.

“But not really found on a doorstep.”

“Yes, really,” Thor says, slowly. “You're adopted as well?”

“Doorstep,” Loki breathes. “Wrapped in a green blanket with my name woven into it.”

Loki can hear the clatter of the knife hitting the cutting board as Thor drops it.

“And when your mum bent down to pick you up, milk fell from her breasts,” Thor continues, paling now, too, and then going cold as Loki nods his head.

“And all the paperwork went through the agencies like the wheels had been greased for that purpose,” Loki murmurs, sinking to the floor and clutching his knees to his chest. “And you've never had a cold. And your dreams are all of blood and thunder.”

Thor is gaping and nodding, sending tears stuttering down his cheeks.

“We're brothers,” Loki sobs. “We're bloody brothers.”

Thor is kneeling before Loki now, taking his hands with fingers that are still sticky from slicing up fruit.

“My blanket was red,” Thor says, and Loki huffs a bitter laugh.

“Fraternal twins. What else could we be?”

“Blessed,” Thor says, gripping Loki by the shoulders. But Loki only laughs again.

“We can't do this,” Loki says, swiping at his face and taking shallow, ragged breaths. “It all makes sense now. We can only be friends.”

“What are you talking about? What makes sense?”

“I'm sorry. I wasn't meant to be your boyfriend - or anybody's,” Loki chokes and shakes his head, then scoots backward and scrambles to his feet. “But we can still salvage a friendship.”

“We're fine. Nothing has changed. Nothing needs salvaging. Jesus, Loki, just stay with me and let it all sink in a minute, will you?” Thor pleads, following Loki to the door and dropping down beside him as he bends to put on his shoes. “Stay with me, mate, come on.”

“This will be better,” Loki says, nodding in agreement with his own assessment while the muscles in his jaw jump and flutter. “Sex just complicates everything. Friendship is more stable. We can love each other longer like this.”

“I'm going to love you to my grave just as we are,” Thor swears, stopping Loki's hands with his own and peering up under Loki's hair to meet his eyes. “Why are you making this into a loss? It's a gain, can't you see that? It's just another way that we're the same.”

“I'm not turning it into a loss,” Loki says, as tears stream down his cheeks in disagreement. “You'll see. We'll be all right. Sex was always such a small part of this.”

And then the door locks itself behind him as his footsteps echo down the stairwell. And Thor's lungs fail to breathe and his throat draws too tight to let him scream.

It's true, technically. Loki has kept sex to a minimum between them. But that had been changing over the course of the last few weeks. And Thor has always had strong suspicions about the reason for Loki's reticence. Loki's genitals are small. Well below what could be considered the low end of average. Thor could tell from the beginning. Jersey is an unforgiving fabric. Clingy and shapeless. It leaves little to the imagination. There's never been a protrusion tenting the front of Loki's bottoms in the morning the way there would be on your average male. No bulge warping the front when he stands. Nothing swinging or jiggling with his steps. There's no pressure against Thor's hip when they're holding each other tight and kissing for all they're worth. Whether it's congenital or the result of an illness or injury, Thor isn't certain. And he isn't bothered. Everyone is different. It keeps things interesting. He's been waiting to let Loki tell him about it when he's ready. Thor's body is at the high end of average, maybe a bit beyond it when he's aroused, but not by much. But Loki hasn't touched him between the legs or seen him entirely bare. He shies from Thor's body. He doesn't mind having Thor hard against him as they kiss or pressed into the cleft of his bum when they're spooning, but his eyes and hands have kept their distance. And Thor wants to be touched, but he's been willing to wait for it. Content to have a wank in the shower every morning if it makes Loki more comfortable.

And now Thor is forced to reassess it all.

He knows that even the most active sex life composes only a fraction of the relationship in which it exists. And people get sick. And old. And sex can't always survive it. But love can and often does. And Thor knows he'll love Loki without sex. He'll do little else. He hardly has a choice. His heart made its mulish mind up on a rainy afternoon in a room full of old books. He won't lose all of Loki's words and looks and laughter. Couldn't bear to miss the dinners, dances, concerts, and conversations. Life is too short. He can't afford to sacrifice even more of Loki's lifespan than work and sleep have already stolen - and will continue to steal. If Loki doesn't need sex, then Thor will find a way to do without it. He'll leave his body in his own hands if he has to. At present, he can't stomach the thought of making love to anyone else.

The trouble is, Loki liked the sex, and Thor knows it. Thor isn't blind. The morning after they'd finally come in front of each other, Loki was so euphoric he could hardly walk. He never once stopped smiling. He didn't tease Thor or talk about work. He barely touched his breakfast. He took Thor's hand, led him back to bed, and asked to be held for the rest of the day. They curled up together and Thor nuzzled Loki's neck and nibbled his ear while Loki hummed and laughed softly to himself, pressing Thor's hand in tighter where it was cupping his belly.

And now Loki would starve himself of that. Ignore the want. Deny the need.

Because they're the same.

Balanced.

Equals.

Brothers.

The word slotted into Thor's mind like a key, opening something old and secret and long sought. An answer. An heirloom. A treasure.

They share no resemblance. Loki looks Celtic. Could be Icelandic. Perhaps with a pinch of Gallic. Thor knows he tends more toward Germanic features himself. But this thing between them is something beyond genes. Like the blood spilled in his dreams. Like the way he longs for wings. A shared piece of soul – or perhaps more than just a piece. Two paths converging. An ally. A twin. A match. Family. Something meant to bind them tighter. But Loki's got it by the wrong end and he's using it to drive them apart.

Thor's phone rings and he bolts across the room to reach it, but it's not the name he wants to see on the screen. He shudders out a sigh and answers it anyway.

“Hi,” Thor says.

“You game for running again? I promised Miche- The First- I said I'd do a video to promote physical fitness but Buck's not up for it.”

“When?” Thor asks.

“Can you meet me at the Liverpool interchange at ten tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“Be ready to sprint.”

“Right.”

Thor has an hour and a half before he has to be there, and it's Thursday night so things won't be all that busy anyway. He pads back to the bathroom to do damage control on his face. Not too puffy. Mostly just pale. The running will fix that. He splashes it with cold water and pats it dry, then puts on his sweats and does his stretches. He lets himself send a single text to Loki before he straps his phone to his arm and heads out to meet Steve.

When Thor gets back from the run, his lungs are winded, but his mind is still wired. He stares at his bed and sees three months of bliss. He thinks of having Loki stretched out beside him and the way it always makes his body flood with soothing warmth and a sense of calm he's never known before. It's a sexless pleasure. Felt with that piece of the heart that strives to grant safety, warmth, love, and comfort - and delights in succeeding. But Loki isn't here now and that part of Thor's heart has gone wild in his breast, drowning itself in gifts that are going undelivered.

Thor knows Loki went home to a bed that hasn't been slept in in ninety-odd days. It makes his stomach turn.

He types texts and deletes them.

I'll love you any way you'll let me, just stay with me.

Please, I can't sleep.

Come home. I'll kip on the sofa and you can take the bed.

He's afraid to make it worse. He's not sure he could survive it.

He drags an old blanket onto the patio with him and stretches out on his battered chaise lounge, looking up at the few stars that are bright enough to shine amid all of London's light. He wants to show them to Loki. To tell him that they're fine. To point out that the sky didn't fall three months ago when two smiling young men kissed in a kitchen. The world didn't cease to turn because two people gave each other pleasure. And it won't. So there's nothing to worry about. Thor thinks he and Loki were made for each other, and that it's a miracle they ever found it out, so maybe the stars up there are their lucky ones and they should think of a way to thank them.

The word brother sits on Thor's tongue like chocolate. Rich. Precious. Complex. Delicious. Something he wants to keep.

Loki goes back to his flat intending to bury himself in work. But he can't write if he can't see, and his vision is clouded. Every time he tips his head down, his tears fall off his cheeks, warping the paper wherever they land and making the ink bleed out into the wet spots. After fifteen minutes of writing, he has a sheet of parchment covered in chicken scratch and swollen grey dots.

He stares at his bed, but can't bring himself to get in it. He doesn't want to take one more step down that road. Doesn't want to make his lie true. Doesn't want to be right.

He gets a text from Thor half an hour after he gets home.

Did you make it back to yours all right?

Loki answers it in the affirmative.

The fact that Thor is still speaking to him is enough of a comfort that he stops crying, which lets him work. He puts on Clint Mansell's score forThe Fountain and sits down at his desk. He can only play instrumental music while he works; if he listens to anything with lyrics, he ends up writing some of the words on the paper in front of him. He learned that the hard way.

He wants to call Thor, but he doesn't know what to say, so he does nothing.

It's all too impossible. He can't work out where to start. Whether to start. Which wrongs to right. If any. Because he still wants Thor, and has from the first. That painted face in a gallery full of tiny paintings of faces. Loki had lingered at the library entrance, staring at the rain, waiting for Thor to leave, fully intending to follow him home. Feigning a mild case of damsel-in-distress so that the handsome prince would come to his rescue. But now it all feels like the end of Roman Holiday. Or Pinocchio played in reverse. Loki isn't a real boy. Just a rough approximation. Other hands hold his strings. He was never free for this. The word brother is the red light reminding him he has to stop. Stay in his place - on a shelf with other beloved oddities.

Loki knows his parents would be heartbroken to learn he's been thinking like this. They never gave him cause to feel this way. They deserve to see all their love and hard work rewarded. But it's a bit out of Loki's hands - life isn't actually fair. He can't see any resolution that doesn't carry at least some risk of catastrophe. If their families were ever to meet, there's a chance the circumstances of their adoption could come out, and if he and Thor were involved in a physical relationship at that point, their parents might be mortified. But Loki's jumping the gun by rather a lot there. He just slammed the door on sex. And he hasn't even told his parents he's seeing anyone yet anyway, because they'll worry and wonder - overprotective of their impossible only child - and he doesn't want to spread the stress and pressure. He wants to be certain of success before he brings a boy home. But that would require transparency, and providing full disclosure could cost him all of Thor's love – and even his own life, if it goes entirely pear-shaped. But Loki had been increasingly confident that it would be okay. He'd been testing the waters indirectly as best he could. When it was his turn to pick a movie, he always made sure it was one that would provide him with data. They watched Boys Don't Cry. Ma vie en rose. Freaks. Hedwig and the Angry Inch. The Crying Game. Orlando. The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert. Soldier's Girl. Transamerica. Paris is Burning. The Elephant Man. Tomboy. All about My Mother. Thor had seen most of them before, and said that they hurt even more now that he was older. Loki didn't doubt it, for Thor cried at some point – more often several points – during each film.

Three months and no missteps. No ugly words uttered by Thor's pretty mouth. No complaints about taking things at a snail's pace between the sheets. No demands or ultimatums. No disappointment. And Loki's never slept so well in all his life. Never felt so relaxed. So wanted. So worshiped. And now Loki sees more potential for disaster where he never thought to look for it - so far back in the past that he can't hope to remember it. Entirely beyond his control. And it hurts all the worse because everything had been going so well; because he'd begun to believe he could have what he wanted.

He does searches online to see if he can find any reference to kidnapped newborns near Sandvika and Bergen. Any mention of missing twins. But it was the eighties, and there was no internet to post on. And no one goes looking for babies that they took pains to abandon in secret.

He realizes he and Thor could get genetic testing done. And then they would know. There would be some sort of fact to face. A truth. An answer. An ending.

But Loki has always been repulsed by those concepts. By the finality of them. They're the death of wonder, mystery, and potential. And they're unrealistic. Life is made of too many variables. It's chaotic. It's like Thor's weather. The precise sterility of Maths will never match up with the muddy tumble of matter. 1 + 1 = 2 is unimaginative at best. More often it strikes Loki as lazy. At worst, it's willfully ignorant. It's definitely dull.

1 + 1 = Eleven.

           An apple and an orange.

           A fertilized egg.

           Octuplets.

           Un et une.

           Ett pluss ett.

           Happy New Year!

           November.

           A boxy set of buttocks.

           The plot of most porno.

           Gin and tonic.

           Homework.

           Three.

           It's a boy!

           It's a girl!

           It's an autosomal recessive sex-limited condition.

           Buckets of tadpoles.

           A wedding.

           A pair.

           A set.

           Twins.

Loki watches Thor's weather forecasts when they come on. Thor's smiles don't reach his eyes today, but they're lovely nonetheless and it soothes Loki to see Thor safe and sound in the studio.

He checks his email while he eats his lunch. There's a forward from his mum to which she's added the message This made me smile. Stop by for dinner soon. Loki hits play on the linked YouTube video, posted just this morning with over half a million hits already. Two men wearing odd little ear-pieces, taking turns racing the tube. Steve Rogers and Thor Hall. Loki has never seen Steve before and was unaware of his last name until now. He knows Steve as the jogging partner he's always too sleepy to bother meeting in the morning. One man rides the train while the other runs, then they switch at the stops. At the gate, they do a hand-off with two flags: one British, one American. It's dark and the cars and stations are nearly empty, so Thor and Steve don't have to dodge too many bodies. The sound is good. Hard Breathing. Swift footsteps. Occasionally there's footage from a CCTV. It's all been edited down to the best bits. The gasping scramble to trade the flags and get into the car gets more desperate with every pass. On the last one, Thor's left arm flies out to block the door while his right reaches forward to yank Steve inside by the armpit. They pant and grin at each other, then hug and pat each other's backs as they laugh. They're just inches apart. The images are surprisingly clear. Loki realizes the ear pieces are cameras. Incredibly tiny. Loki hasn't seen anything like them before.

He hasn't seen anything like Steve Rogers before either. Smiling at Thor with full pink lips that twist off to the side in an impish smirk. Dark blue eyes. A mop of blond hair blown away from his face by the speed of his sprinting. A body that looks better in sweats than most could manage in a tailored tux.

And Loki notes that the hickey he put on Thor's neck on Wednesday looks exactly as it did last night - when he left Thor crying on the floor of his flat.

Loki's body floods with nausea and adrenaline. He checks the time, then picks up his phone and dials Thor, who answers instantly.

“Hi-”

“Did you sleep with Steve last night?” Loki breathes.

“Beg your pardon?”

“Rogers. I saw the video. You shot it last night.”

“Right.”

“So you slept with him?”

“No,” Thor says.

“Does he always look at you like that?”

“I s'pose.”

“And you expect me to believe he has nothing to do with why I didn't hear anything from you after nine-thirty pm? He looks like he's going to swallow you whole.”

“Steve's a lousy liar. If he likes you, you'll know it. If he doesn't, he won't even try to hide it.”

“Then he wants to fuck you with his tongue,” Loki spits.

Thor laughs at this.

“It isn't funny,” Loki says, and Thor can hear the tremor in Loki's voice. An inch from tears. Maybe less.

“It will be,” Thor says, gently, getting up to shut his office door. “Look at Steve's right hand.”

“What?”

“Play it again and pay attention to his right hand.”

Thor can hear a shaky intake of breath. Then the drag of Loki's finger on the track pad. Then the audio comes faintly through the phone as Loki watches the video, pausing and reversing it at relevant shots.

“Is it a wedding band?” Loki asks.

“Yep.”

“But he likes men.”

“Yeah,” Thor agrees. “And women. He's married to a man, though. It's legal in New York.”

“Why is it on his right hand?”

“Because his husband just lost his left arm.”

“Jesus,” Loki breathes. “How?”

“Occupational hazard.”

“What the hell does he do for a living?”

“Officially, they're both here as advisers to the Ministry of Defense.”

“And unofficially?"

“I'm pretty sure they're working with MI6. You don't lose an arm in an English conference room. We don't talk about it.”

“Because they can't.”

“Exactly. I don't like making them lie. They hate it. And it doesn't matter anyway.”

“How did you meet?”

“Steve runs through London at five in the morning, too. As fast as I do. Kept crossing paths. Finally asked if he wanted to pair up so we could push each other a bit. Nice to have company. Get coffee afterward. Watch the sun come up.”

“What do you talk about?” Loki wonders aloud.

“The weather.”

“You're serious.”

“Yeah,” Thor admits. “The weather in New York City. Or Moscow. Or Cairo. Or Lahore.”

“Are you working for MI6?”

“I'm not on their payroll. Maybe I should be.”

“Is Steve going to be in trouble when Bucky sees the video?” Loki asks.

“I'm pretty sure Bucky edited the video,” Thor laughs. “And stole the CCTV footage. And Bucky is the most unrepentant flirt on the Earth's face, so maybe Steve's just getting a bit of his own back.”

Thor listens to Loki's breathing and tries to organize his thoughts. But they won't make sense.

“Can you clear something up for me?” Thor asks.

“I can try.”

“Why are you bothered by the thought of me sleeping with Steve if you don't want to date me anymore?”

“Because I do want to keep seeing you,” Loki sighs.

“What about the, um, coincidence,” Thor asks.

“I'd like to talk about all that, but later, when you're out of the office.”

“Okay. And to clear the air on my end, I didn't ring or text you last night because I didn't want to wake you... and I didn't want to make it all worse.”

“Well, no worries,” Loki breezes. “I didn't sleep a wink and I cocked everything up again on my own.”

“Hey,” Thor soothes. “Shh. You all right?”

“Yeah. No. Sorry. Not really.”

“Loki-”

“It's a long story,” Loki says, and he sounds tired. Older. “It's  _ the _ long story. Look, um, I know you've got to be getting back to work, but... can I call you tonight?”

“Of course.”

“Right. Good. I'll try you after dinner.”

“Looking forward to it,” Thor says. “Love you, mate.”

“Hold that thought for me, will you?” Loki whispers.

 

3 Providence

 

Loki throws in the towel after an hour spent staring into space while ink dried on the nib of his pen. He puts on a button up, a thin pair of jeans, and his weightless old trainers, then walks the two miles to his parents' house. Once he's in the door, his eyes go to the chair at the back of the living room and find the dog sleeping in it, just as they expect to. When she wakes up and sees him, she bolts over to meet him, standing up on her hind legs and punching him in the thighs before she sprints around the first floor, doing her traditional victory-lap-greeting. Afterward, she returns, panting, to roll around on top of his feet until he bends to rub her belly.

The house is quiet. A bit dark with just the daylight. But the windows are open and the breeze has been blowing in from the garden all afternoon, so the house smells like leaves and sunlight. Nothing unpleasant has ever happened to Loki under this roof. No small feat, given the circumstances of his existence. He's banking on that trend continuing. Hopeful that there's some spell in these walls that keeps him safe and happy - and that it's still working.

He peeks in the fridge to see what the options are, then texts his mum: Want me to start that roast? and gets himself a glass of water as he waits for her answer: Yes, and don't forget the veg in the crisper.

He's out in the garden chasing the dog around when his dad gets home. Jan can see his son through the window, but the dog is too short to show above the frame. He can hear her grunting and growling playfully and see Loki dodging and dropping around her. He pours them some wine before joining Loki outside. Loki's mum comes through the door less than ten minutes later with a pretty fruit tart that she hides in the back of the fridge so that Jan and Loki won't pick it apart with their fingers before they've even started supper.

Marit carves up the roast while Loki makes salad and Jan sets the table. They sit in the same seats they've been using for the last two decades.

“Finish up early then?” Marit asks, setting a generous slice of the roast on Loki's plate and then piling on vegetables, waiting for Loki's customary complaint – I'm not a bloody bunny rabbit, Mum, have mercy on my colon.

But Loki sits silently for several seconds before he blinks and looks up at her.

“Beg your pardon?”

“With work,” she says. “Did you finish sooner than you expected today?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “Made good progress last night, though... worked from nine-thirty until noon-”

“Loki,” she scolds, and he grins. “Tired then?” she asks, teasing.

“No. Well, yes, but not sleepy.”

“Having trouble sleeping?” Jan asks.

“No, I...” Loki begins, but realizes that he needs to take a second to sort out the end of the sentence.

I had a fight with my boyfriend sounds dangerous, which it wasn't. And his parents don't know he has a boyfriend.

I only sleep in Thor's bed these days, and I ran off and left him sobbing in his flat last night, so it wasn't really an option is probably more than they need to know – it's certainly more than he wants to admit – and, again, there's a lot of back-story it necessitates.

I'm in love and I'm terrified sounds feeble and vague.

I met the love of my life and I might lose him tonight is, unfortunately, an improvement. Loki swallows thickly and then licks his lips.

“I've been seeing someone,” he says, and his parents go still and look at him. He wishes he had two heads so he could watch both of them at once.

“All right?” Jan asks, just as Marit says, “How long?”

“Yeah,” Loki laughs. “Three months now.”

His parents are silent at this, and he takes a deep breath.

“I haven't told him yet,” Loki says, quietly. “I'm going to do it tonight. Was wondering if you'd mind if I told him from here. Over the phone. Just to be on the safe side.”

“Of course not,” they say, in unison, and Loki gives them a tight, but grateful, smile.

After dinner, Loki picks up his mobile and stares at his mum, who's sitting on the sofa, sipping wine and reading while Jan does the washing up.

“Wish me luck, yeah?” Loki whispers, and she nods at him and winks.

He walks out into the garden with the dog at his heels. It's still quite bright outside. The solstice is just a few days away. Loki has always imagined this conversation taking place in darkness. He expects things to end at night. But he knows not everything gets to die in its sleep. Awful things happen in sunlight as often as not. It's just a coin toss.

He dials Thor, who picks up before the first ring has even finished, just as he always does.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” Loki says, unable to resist a smile, and wondering if it makes his voice sound any different.

“You okay?” Thor asks.

“I... yeah, I think so. Sorry. I just needed to get my head together.”

“That's all right.”

“Are you busy?” Loki asks. “Or can you talk for a bit?

“Nothing on. I'm all yours,” Thor assures him.

“Right. Good. Okay. Um,” Loki says, and then kicks himself for not doing this via e-mail, where all his awkward pauses and floundering would leave no evidence. “It's just... I like you. A lot... Christ, so much, Thor. And I do want to keep seeing you.”

“Feeling's mutual.”

“It is now. But you might change your mind by the end of this call.”

“Not bloody likely,” Thor muses.

“I hope you're right,” Loki whispers, then steels himself. “Have you read Middlesex?”

“Doesn't ring a bell,” Thor says.

“Greek family, three generations, from Smyrna to Detroit. The grandparents are siblings.”

“No,” Thor says. “Sounds like something I'd remember reading if I had. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, it was just plan A. Less explaining for me to do if you were familiar with the story.”

“Would you like me to read it?” Thor asks.

“You can always read it later if you like. For now, I'll just move on to plan B,” Loki sighs. “I don't suppose 5-alpha reductase deficiency means anything to you?”

“No, sorry,” Thor says. “Couldn't even hazard a guess.”

“That's all right. It's just... I was born with it... and it basically means I couldn't convert testosterone into DHT, which is a different type of testosterone. And, without that my body couldn't build some parts properly.”

“Oh, God, Loki, is it your heart?”

“No, no. All the necessities are in good order. Brain, heart, lungs, liver, kidneys, guts. All fine.”

“And you're not in any pain?” Thor asks.

“Nothing like that, no. No pain. No danger.”

“Oh, thank heaven,” Thor breathes.

“Yeah, as far as these things go, it's, um, pretty benign. Dodged a bullet, really. DHT is just a sex hormone. Without it, males can only build the basics... and the basics are... as minimal as you'd expect. So...” Loki exhales very slowly and then draws a deep breath. He lets this one out, too, then drinks in another. He feels like he's loading the gun for a fatal game of Russian roulette. Live rounds in all six chambers. He draws four more breaths. “I'm sorry if this all seems cruel and cold. I just don't want to dance around it anymore. I want to know where I stand, so I'm gonna drop the whole mess in your lap, all right?”

“Go for it,” Thor says.

“Right... So... I'm male. All the main structures are there, but... uh... not where you'd expect to find them. My testes are still up in my inguinal canals. I have la- hmmm. Fuck,” Loki chokes, as his voice thickens until it stops. He lets himself take a deep breath and wishes he'd brought a glass of water. “I have labia instead of a scrotum,” he whispers, and then soldiers on despite the waver in his voice. “I have pseudovaginal perineoscrotal hypospadias, which, apart from being a mouthful, means I have what's called a blind vaginal pouch... which is a fancy way of saying 'tiny dead-end vagina'... and my urethra is in that pouch instead of at the tip of my penis. And my penis... looks more like an overstuffed clitoris.”

“Isn't every penis just an overstuffed clitoris?” Thor asks.

Loki bursts into stunned laughter at this. When he calms, he finds his hands and voice have finally stopped shaking.

“In a way,” Loki sighs. “Only mine's more at the classic clitoris end of the scale.”

“Does it come with the classic clitoris multiple-orgasm capacity?”

“I wish,” Loki sighs. “Nope. One and done.”

“Damn.”

“I know. And my prostate is almost nonexistent, so not much fun there, either, I'm afraid.”

“Are the odds of prostate cancer equally nonexistent at least?”

“Yeah, actually. Unheard of in my population.”

“Silver lining.”

“I'm also sterile.”

Thor snorts at this. He can tell by Loki's tone that Loki is just being a shit now, which means he's feeling better.

“Well, I don't have ovaries or a uterus,” Thor says. “Hope I'm not bursting a bubble for you there.”

Loki laughs again at this, and the vice around Thor's chest finally leaves off and lets him draw a full breath.

“So... are you telling me this because you're gonna let me put your cock in my mouth?” Thor asks, tone playful and serious all at once.

“I'm telling you so you can decide whether you'd actually want to.”

“I do,” Thor says.

“How can you be so sure?”

“I'm gonna take whatever you're willing to give me, mate, I don't know what to tell you. The sky is blue and grass is green.”

Loki hums.

“And what about our birthday?” Thor asks, quietly. “And all the other things we might have in common?”

“That was... I've always been quick to see my body as a curse,” Loki sighs. “Always looking for reason and meaning. Like it's a punishment for something. Or a prophecy. Last night, the coincidence felt like the reason - like I was only ever meant to have so much of you. But...”

“But?" Thor encourages.

“But it was just an excuse. There's no malice in biology. And now... Brothers,” Loki breathes. “It feels impossible and true in equal measure. And perfect. Like we've always been a pair.”

“I know,” Thor whispers. “I think it's lovely.”

Loki hums and they sit in silence for a minute.

“Wanna meet my dog?” Loki asks, when she appears at his feet.

“Is that a euphemism?”

“No. Git. You'd be meeting my parents, too. We're about a mile north of you. I can text you the address.”

“Would it be weird if I walked?” Thor asks. “Or should I call a cab?”

“You can walk.”

“All right. So... I'll see you in about twenty minutes. Need anything while I'm out?”

“No, I think we're all set.”

“'Kay. See you in a bit.”

“See you.”

Loki texts the address and directions and a description of the house to Thor, then heads back inside, holding the door open behind him until he hears the dog's nails clattering over the threshold and into the house underneath him. He sinks down on the sofa beside his mum, who's still on page ninety-six of her novel and still pretending to read it, but smiling. His father comes over and takes the chair across from him.

“How'd it go?” Jan asks.

“Quite well,” Loki admits, eyes wide as if he still can't quite believe it. “I asked him over. Hope that's all right.”

Jan nods and smiles, but his smile is tighter than Marit's. More cautious. Tentative. Hopeful, but practical.

“I'll get the door. You stay in here with your mum.”

Loki nods.

When the knock comes, the dog is first to answer it. When Jan opens it, there's an enormous blond man smiling down at him with a face that's weirdly familiar.

“Mr. Falk?”

“Jan, please,” Jan says, offering his hand and receiving a firm, dry handshake.

“Thor Hall. Pleased to meet you.”

“Pleasure's mine,” Jan nods, as his eyebrows lift faintly in recognition of the name, and, now, the face without its makeup on. “Please, come in.”

“So this is Ruffy,” Thor says, crouching to let her sniff his hand and then rubbing her neck. “Loki made you sound smaller,” Thor confides, as he scratches her ear.

The dog is built a bit like a corgi – though with slightly longer legs and a slightly shorter back.

Thor unlaces his old Adidas and leaves them on the mat with everyone else's shoes. He follows Jan into the living room where a woman with wild red curls is tossing a book onto the coffee table and rising to her feet.

“Marit,” she says, waving off Thor's offer of a handshake and instead pulling his face down toward hers so that she can kiss his cheeks.

“Thor. Sharp suit,” Thor says, admiring her knee-length sheath.

“Thank you. Did you two coordinate your outfits over the phone?” she teases, and Thor looks over at Loki, who's still sitting on the sofa.

Loki is wearing a red and green plaid poplin shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and he has on dark blue jeans. Thor's outfit is essentially identical, though the plaid is of a slightly different pattern.

“How embarrassing,” Loki taunts.

Thor grins.

Loki pats the space beside him and Thor sinks into it, sitting so close their hips are touching. He slings his left arm over Loki's shoulders and leans back to look at him.

“All right?” Thor says, softly.

“Didn't sleep.”

“Same here,” Thor admits.

Loki nods. He can see the shadows under Thor's eyes. He sighs and swings his legs across Thor's thighs, then squawks and laughs as the dog launches herself onto his lap and begins licking both of their faces and grunting at them, then rolling around on them. Loki has to keep his left arm held out to prevent her from falling off onto the floor.

“Someone likes to wrestle,” Thor notes.

“She does,” Loki nods. “But she's clumsy. Odd proportions. Did you notice she suffers from your condition?”

“Oh? And what's that?” Thor asks.

“Back's just a tad too long; legs are just a little too short.”

“And the bloke she loves is just a bit of an arsehole,” Thor finishes, and he can hear Jan and Marit laughing in the kitchen.

“Twat,” Loki snorts, shaking with laughter in Thor's arms.

“Wine, boys?” Marit calls. “Oh, and the tart. Forgot all about it.”

“Please,” Thor answers.

“Thor wants you to give his slice to me,” Loki calls, shooing the dog off and climbing out of Thor's lap before heading to the table.

They sit and let their wine breathe while they start in on the tart.

“How do you like being on television?” Marit asks, and Thor smiles and tilts his head down to his left.

“It's my least favorite part of the job,” he admits. “But it lets me live in London.”

“The camera loves you,” she notes, and he smiles.

“I'll take your word for it.”

“Though you look ten years younger in person. And I'd no idea you were so tall until I saw you in that video, racing the tube,” she admits. “Who's the American?”

“That's my friend Steve,” Thor says. “We've been running together for six years now.”

“Does he model?” Jan asks, looking up. He and Loki have both been engrossed in their tarts until now.

“He could be persuaded,” Thor wagers, narrowing his eyes. “I know his pressure point.”

“Press it for me, would you?” Jan says.

“Sure. You might want to shoot his pressure point, too,” Thor smiles. “Looks half-cherub, half-vampire.”

Jan makes a pleased sound at this; Loki makes an annoyed huff.

“Bucky's beautiful too?” Loki pouts.

“Bucky is the reason Steve doesn't drag me out running on weekends.”

“In that case I forgive him for having a face,” Loki says, with what passes for reverence in him.

“Who's the gardener?” Thor asks, taking in the view out the back windows.

“That would be me,” Marit says, and she and Thor talk annuals, perennials, butterflies, and birds while Jan and Loki help themselves to seconds of the tart. Eventually, Loki steals what's left on Thor's plate, and then they all take their drinks to the living room.

As their conversation goes on, Thor thuds one too many Ts into a D, and Marit squints at him and cocks her head.

“Ja,” Thor sighs, smiling. “Jeg en norsk også.” Yes, I'm Norwegian too.

They spend the rest of the evening speaking Norwegian and talking about news from back home.

By ten, Loki has fallen asleep under Thor's arm with the dog's head in his lap. His parents smile their goodnights at Thor and then head upstairs.

Through the course of the night, the bodies on the sofa shift, until the two men are stretched out belly to belly with their legs all knotted up and the dog is straddling their heads like a furry hat.

At dawn, Ruffian wakes them, clambering carelessly off the couch, then jumping and spinning on the floor next to Loki and Thor, grunting and growling playfully.

“She wants to go out,” Loki croaks, “The garden is walled.”

Thor rolls off the couch and opens the back door to let her outside, then stands watching as she lifts her leg and goes about her business. When she's finished, she kicks up a clump of sod and then bolts back into the house and straight to the kitchen, where she resumes her twirling, grunting, and growling, sometimes on just her hind legs.

“Wants her breakfast,” Loki says. “It's in the tin canister on top of the counter. She gets two full scoops.”

Thor lets the kibble bounce into the bowl. He gets a glass from the cupboard, fills it with water, and tops off the dog's dish, then refills the glass and brings it to Loki, who sits up and sips it gratefully.

When the dog is done eating, Loki takes Thor's hand and leads him upstairs. Ruffy shoots up the steps along the wall to their left and disappears into a dark room. There are pictures on the walls lining the stairs and the hallway, but it's too dark to see them clearly. Even so, Thor can tell they're largely of Loki, and he looks forward to seeing them in the morning light.

They use the loo together. Thor washes his face and rinses his mouth while Loki sits down and takes a piss. Then they switch. They cross the hall to the room where the dog is waiting. Loki's old room. Lots of black, just like in his flat, to hide the spill and spatter of ink. The carpet throughout the house is cream, and incredibly plush, and Thor is surprised to find that it covers the floor in Loki's room, too. There's a black flat-woven rug beneath the desk, though – no doubt to spare said carpet. There's black damask wallpaper that makes Thor think of Sherlock's living room. There are bookshelves built into the right wall and a bed and walk-in closet built into the left.

Loki stoops to pick up the dog and then sets her on the mattress.

“She can't quite make it up here on her own anymore,” he murmurs. “She has a little staircase, but it's in Mum and Dad's room these days.”

Thor nods and runs his hand down Loki's back, feeling impotent in his inability to cease the aging of a single dog.

“Do you want me to leave the door open?” Thor asks.

“Yeah. She'll come and go all morning. Likes to be in the kitchen when dad eats breakfast because he always sneaks her something under the table, but then she'll pop back up to sleep.”

They fold their clothes and set them on the chair, then climb into bed in just their boxers. The closest they've been to naked together.

They're accustomed to a king, but the double bed feels spacious after the sofa. They settle into one of their favorite positions, with Thor stretched out on his back and Loki tucked under his right arm, his head pillowed on Thor's shoulder, and his right arm and leg slung over Thor's body.

Thor wakes two hours later to the sound of Marit's voice softly calling the dog, who is watching, but not responding.

“She's had her breakfast and been out to do her business,” Thor whispers, tipping his head up.

“Oh, no wonder she's ignoring me. Thanks,” Marit says, and Thor hears her feet going down the stairs a second later.

Thor likes this house. He knows Marit Falk does very well, but the place is modest. Quite small, really. Just a few large rooms. Red brick and white painted trim on a street lined with more of the same. Low fence out front with a bit of hedge. Old and solid.

The next time Thor wakes, he can hear voices floating in the window and he can smell coffee. He rolls toward Loki and hears a sleepy hum buzzing from Loki's head.

“There's coffee,” Thor whispers, half purr, half whine.

“Mmmhmmm.”

Thor kisses Loki's forehead and Loki smiles and squeezes him, but doesn't entirely wake up.

Loki looks so pale against the black sheets. The cool morning light from the window is filtering through the gauzy white curtains and onto his skin, making him look blue. Thor's never been on black sheets before. They're surprising. All the dead skin that the body sheds is readily visible. Thousands of tiny white flecks. Inescapable decay. Thor supposes it must inspire the sleeper to change their sheets every few days. And he imagines all the milky stains left behind by semen. He suspects hiding the evidence of masturbation wasn't something Loki ever had to worry about. Thor didn't either - his sheets were white and his mother is a very frank anthropologist. Loki's parents strike Thor as supportive. Loki was here when he called to confess his secret last night. He isn't wearing shorts on top of his boxers as an added layer of privacy the way he normally would. Thor remembers Jan answering the door, eyes quickly darting up and down his shape, taking his measure, keeping Loki behind him. Defensive. Protective. He must know about the man who assaulted Loki in his flat.

Thor kisses Loki's temple and Loki hums again and opens his eyes.

“That shit who hit you,” Thor whispers, and Loki nods, giving Thor permission to continue. “Had you just told him?”

“No,” Loki says, sighing and rolling onto his back. “Didn't even get that far. We'd been on quite a few dates. I'd already brought him back to mine for a snog a few times and hadn't had any trouble. That night, he went for my belt and I stopped him. Told him I'd prefer to take things slowly. He just exploded. Smashed my face and slammed me against the wall by the throat, screaming that I'd been leading him on and wasting his time. Calling me a cock-tease.”

“Jesus,” Thor whispers, and dips his head to kiss Loki's shoulder.

When he looks back up at Loki's face, he sees the same darkly determined look that clouded Loki's features as they made their way to his flat that first night after the library.

“Will you do something for me?” Loki asks.

“Like roll him up in a carpet and chuck him in the Thames?” Thor says, hopeful.

“Not what I had in mind, but I like it,” Loki smiles. “Will you take a look at me?”

Thor can hear the low murmur of Jan and Marit's voices floating up from the garden where they're still sipping coffee. The dog is snoring under the desk. Allies within earshot. This is as close to a stronghold as Loki has in the world – or thinks he has, as he hasn't yet realized that Thor's arms have always been one - and Loki still looks nervous. But Thor knows it's not without reason; biology may bear no malice, but men quite often do.

“Love to,” Thor says, and Loki kicks down the sheets, then curls his legs up over his chest so he can slip his boxers off.

He lets his legs settle on the bed in a wide stance while he keeps his eyes trained on Thor's face.

Thor feels like he's being asked to suture an injury. Like he should be in a mask and a gown with gloves and bright lights. Sterile and trustworthy, sworn to do no harm. He sits up and crawls down the bed until he's kneeling between Loki's thighs. Loki gives a quick nod of his head, urging the ax to fall, and Thor drops his eyes to the tender pink parts he's meant to be measuring in some way that is irrelevant to him, but vital to Loki.

Loki's penis is the size of the first joint of Thor's little finger, heavily hooded and aimed downward. Petal pink, with that luminous quality that the ears and fingertips have. The pocket of flesh that opens below it is a deep red. Raw looking. Wet, shiny, and wonderful. The labia are minimal. Flat and very lightly furred. Below, there's a smooth expanse of perineum and then the dusky wrinkled knot of an anus. Everything is streamlined and simple, like a mammal from the sea. It was an amniotic sea, Thor supposes. Thor sees the essentials, in their original proportions. The inescapable feminine.

“When I'm hard, it's a little thicker and maybe a third longer,” Loki says. “I'll never be able to fuck you with it, so if that's a deal breaker just tell me now. Don't lead me on. Don't settle. And don't you goddamn dare pity me.”

Thor pulls the blankets up over his shoulders like a cape and then climbs up the bed so that he and the sheets are spread out over Loki. He gently lowers his weight until their bellies are molded to each other, sandwiching the soft gurgling bundles of their guts between the spiky armor of their spines. He drops his head to peck Loki's cheeks and press soft kisses to his lips. And then Loki's mind catches up with his body and his arms lift to encircle Thor's ribs, because he's just noticed that Thor's cock is hard and throbbing against him, pressed flush to his sex with only the thin cotton of Thor's boxers between them. Threadbare fabric acting as chaperone, offering Loki some semblance of chastity and protection. Space, and therefore time. A position they're both familiar with, but now with three fewer layers of clothing and an added layer of awareness in each of their minds. Loki hums and tilts his head for a proper snog. They kiss until they hear the back door open and close below as Loki's parents head back into the house. Then Loki topples Thor off to his right and hops out of bed, stepping into yesterday's jeans and then gliding his shirt up his arms and over his shoulders with a neat snap of his limbs.

“How are you going to get your jeans on?” Loki teases, eying Thor's erection as he buttons up his shirt.

“Thinking about politics always does the trick,” Thor sighs.

Loki calls the dog and heads downstairs to leave Thor to it.

Thor doesn't want to look too lazy, so he stuffs himself into his jeans. By the time he's used the loo and washed his face, he's fit for parental consumption. Loki has a cup of coffee waiting for him when he gets to the kitchen, for which he kisses the top of Loki's head and calls him his savior before dropping into the seat beside him and hooking their ankles together under the table.

Marit's on her laptop in the living room, working, but Jan is in the kitchen and eager to fix omelets. The low conspiratorial tones and unconscious acts of intimacy emanating from the two young bodies at the table set Jan's mind at ease. He sees Thor wiping sleep from Loki's eyes and fixing Loki's hair; he sees Loki straightening Thor's collar and stealing sips of his coffee; he sees they way their eyes are dark and liquid as they meet and dance and tease each other with warm darting gazes; he sees the ecstatic anticipation that's held aloft between the boys by the beating of their breaths, which are deeper and more swift than they have any other reason to be.

They gratefully gobble up their breakfast and then hunt for Thor's shoes, which have been stowed under a chair by the dog. Loki leads Thor out into the garden so that Ruffy can demonstrate all the tricks he's taught her over the years, thereby earning herself a large quantity of treats.

Jan watches them through the window. Sees them sneaking kisses, smiles, and embraces. Hears laughter as the dog delights them with her wickedness, stealing biscuits when Loki's back is turned. Sees Thor bobbing and dipping through Marit's flowerbeds, admiring the blossoms and arrangements while Loki follows him around and admires his bum. Gentle giants, with their hair falling around their faces and framing their features like nymphs. Jan rushes to grab a camera with a lens long enough to get good shots of them from within the house.

When the boys come back inside, Jan can tell they're ready to go. Marit seems to be able to sense it with the back of her neck and turns to look up at them.

“Are you off then?” she asks, and Loki nods, smiling.

“Thank you for having me,” Thor says, and they tell him it's their pleasure.

“Can I give you a lift?” Jan asks, and Thor nods and says please.

Jan suspects his son's mind is already off in Thor's bed, and his body is eager to catch up with it.

Ruffy gets the front seat, and Thor and Loki take the back. The front passenger window is already streaked with the cloudy little smears left by a dog's damp nose. Loki gives Jan Thor's address and then tells him how to get there. Traffic isn't too bad on Saturday mornings. It's pleasant to drive with the windows down – not too much exhaust or honking. Thor and Loki feel young, sitting in the back seat with a parent behind the wheel, watching the world go by in a blur. They offer their thanks as they climb from the car and Jan watches them walk toward the door to Thor's building. He sees Loki pull the keys from his pocket to let them inside. They both turn to wave farewell again before disappearing into the entry.

Three months, Jan thinks. Keys exchanged. Habits begun. He saw them from the hallway through Loki's open door this morning, asleep in the same pose he and Marit favor. Bodies calmly lost in the comfort enjoyed by old married couples. Three months, Jan thinks again. Three months of Loki stubbornly keeping his secret; three months of Thor patiently letting him. And now Jan wonders if perhaps patience is just another sort of stubbornness: a refusal to fail at the task of waiting.

Thor and Loki strip as soon as they're in Thor's flat, chucking their clothes into the laundry. The sandstone feels welcome under Loki's toes. The high ceilings and warm daylight make him feel like he's on holiday in Greece or Egypt, walking through ruins. But the scents are unmistakably of home: Thor's skin, wool rugs, coffee, and Ariel laundry detergent. As much as Loki hates to be away, he loves how much easier it is to smell everything when he hasn't been numbed to it by constant exposure.

They stroll back to the bathroom to give their furry teeth a welcome scrubbing. Loki watches Thor in the mirror. There's white foam bubbling up at the corners of his mouth while he stares absentmindedly down into the sink. His hair looks cleaner than Loki expects. Blond and fluffy where his own is getting a bit greasy. Thor looks up and their eyes meet in the glass and Thor smiles around his toothbrush and then bends to spit and rinse his mouth.

“I'm gonna grab a quick shower,” Thor says, leaning over to kiss Loki's face and feeling Loki's toothbrush bumping against his lips through Loki's cheek.

Loki bends and spits hastily, dribbling some down his chin.

“Can I join you?” Loki asks, and Thor kisses him again.

“'Course.”

Thor lets the water warm up while Loki waits behind him, belting Thor's slim waist with cool white arms. They step in in tandem and stand, still hugging, under the hot drumming of the water. Thor turns and takes the shower head out of its cradle, spinning the dial to massage and aiming it at the back of Loki's neck, watching as the water slithers and winds its way down Loki's spine, lending its warmth to his skin until the flesh begins to grow rosy. He sets the head back to the diffuse spray and hooks it in its slot again before flipping open the shampoo and lathering Loki's hair. Loki's limbs are loose and placid. The only tension left in his body is in his face – the muscles of the mouth and cheeks, lifted in a smile. When the last lingering suds have left Loki's hair, Thor tells him he can open his eyes, and Loki gives Thor a peck on the lips and then grabs the soap to wash himself. Thor does his own hair and then rushes to get caught up with Loki, who steals the shower head and aims it at his own heart, letting the water warm his core. Loki looks on, still smiling, as Thor's peachy skin disappears beneath swirls and streaks of sudsy foam. He thinks of The Birth of Venus. Thor is his Botticelli goddess, with bright blond hair and ruddy cheeks, about to emerge from the sea foam and drown him in love. Loki turns the nozzle around and rinses Thor off, unwilling to wait any longer. He takes great pleasure in rinsing the cleft of Thor's bum, which makes Thor giggle and jiggle and arch his back to ask for more. Loki shifts the setting tomassage again and aims an unexpected jet of water straight at Thor's anus. Thor laughs with that deep rough voice, like a growl and a challenge and congratulations all at once.

They're still soaking wet when they climb into bed. Loki rolls straight onto his back in the middle of the mattress and Thor leans over him, hair raining water down onto Loki's chest. Loki wishes the drops were stained gold from Thor's hair. That they'd linger on his skin the way ink does. For days. That he'd be left looking like a Klimt painting.

Loki's nipples are pulling the skin of his breast tight over his chest.

“Warm enough?” Thor asks, looking up from the rosy little nubs.

Loki nods. The day is summery and his skin is still blushing from the shower. His silly tits are just excitable. He cranes his neck to lift his lips toward Thor's as his left hand cups the back of Thor's neck and draws him down into a firm kiss. Mouths closed, eyes open. A simple kiss of greeting. The sort you give to someone you've known forever. To family. Loki's right hand floats up off the bed and finds Thor's ribs, heavy and warm against his fingers, stretching with every breath. And he feels those breaths against his lips, weightless and hot. He pushes gently on Thor to urge him over, wanting Thor's body centered above his own so that Thor can be the sun and sky and he can be the earth and sea in this strange microcosm they're making. Thor swings a leg over Loki's thighs and settles onto him slowly, resting most of his weight on his knees and elbows so that Loki will be able to breathe. Thor's balls are nestled between Loki's legs. They feel cool against his heated skin. Slightly fuzzy. The tip of Loki's prick is pressing between them, separating them just a little. Thor's cock is a hot line running up the base of Loki's belly. Long and hard. Pressing harder as Loki rubs his thumbs into Thor's pebbled pink nipples. The damp strands of Thor's hair are falling around their faces and dragging against Loki's cheeks. More rain.

Loki remembers it's the tail end of spring. It feels apt. He's a late bloomer. He smiles and tips his head to lick across Thor's lips. Thor loves wet messy kisses. Loves when Loki licks and sucks him everywhere. Lives for when Loki bites him and leaves bruises. Loki traces every ridge of Thor's palate with his tongue. Follows the contours of the teeth. Laps the fleshy silk of the inner cheeks. Tickles Thor's tastebuds. He can feel Thor's cock dripping onto his belly, just below his navel. The drops are hot when they land, then go cool as they're chilled by the air. He's making Thor wet, and it makes him wonder, but now Thor's kissing his neck and he can't think of anything else when that happens. The thin skin is so receptive to the tugs and suction of Thor's lips. Thor dips down to do Loki's collarbones and Loki feels the sticky head of Thor's cock dragging lower along his stomach. His body floods with warmth. The nerves between his legs have all lit up to let him feel everything. He lifts his left shoulder so that Thor can crown it with kisses. Some strange ritual of theirs. Loki slides his hands slowly down Thor's sides, feeling the rippling bones of the ribs give way to the curved meat of the flank. Then the crepey skin over the crests of the hips catches on the damp pads of his fingers and he stills. Thor's kisses have stopped now and he's just breathing against Loki's neck. Slow, cautious breaths, meant to make it easier for him to focus on his skin. Loki's hands squeeze Thor's pelvis.

“This all right?” Loki asks.

“Yeah. Anything you like,” Thor says, nodding, and Loki turns his head for a kiss.

They watch each other's faces, but their focus is pulling inward as their sense of touch takes over. Loki's right hand is sliding between their bellies. The heat and weight of Thor's cock are a shock to his fingers. The skin is so fragile but the flesh beneath it is so firm. Thor makes a small sound in his throat and his eyes fall closed as Loki gives him a careful stroke. Loki presses the head of Thor's cock toward him with his right hand while his left hand urges Thor to move down the bed slightly. Thor feels the drag of Loki's fur against the tip of his prick. Then Loki shifts his wrist and there's silky wetness, hot and smooth like the inside of a mouth. It cups the head of Thor's cock perfectly. Loki is gently swirling Thor's body within his own, staring up at Thor with parted lips. Then he lifts Thor's cock up and Thor feels pressure as Loki's erection catches on the tip of his prick and glides over his slit. Thor groans and starts breathing hard again, like a bellows against Loki's lips.

“You're so wet inside,” Thor gasps.

“A lot of it is precum,” Loki pants. “That's where it leaks out.”

“Oh, fuck yes,” Thor groans, and kisses Loki's face, finding the fine skin of Loki's cheek hot and damp beneath his lips.

Loki's features grow focused and Thor can feel Loki's left hand brushing his belly. Loki takes his own erection between his fingers and holds it steady, then presses its tip against the slit in Thor's prick, wiggling both of their cockheads gently against each other.

“Am I in you?” Loki asks, biting his lip and smirking a bit, and Thor's eyes go wide before his face breaks into a blinding grin and he nods his head. “Does it feel okay?” Loki asks.

“Yeah. It's really sensitive, though,” Thor admits. “Fuck, that is wild. I like it.”

Loki smiles and then sets Thor's erection back between their bellies so that they can kiss and twine their limbs around each other. Thor has marked Loki's neck up so much he'll have to wear a scarf if he leaves the flat tomorrow. He sucks Loki's earlobe and then nips it.

“Can I make you come?”

“Yes,” Loki breathes, nodding.

“Can I use my mouth?”

“I think so.”

Thor kisses his way over Loki's features and captures Loki's lips in his own, coaxing out Loki's tongue and sucking on it, wondering if he could somehow leave a love bite on it. He gives Loki a taste of what's to come. Warm boneless caresses. A slow sliding rhythm of wet willing mouth.

The flush is already high on Loki's throat when Thor starts kissing his way down. His nipples are still taut and perky, and Thor teases them with tugs from his lips and pokes from his tongue until Loki thrashes and squeals and bats Thor's head away, then covers his tender nipples with cupped hands. Thor kisses the arch of Loki's ribs as he looks up at Loki's face. Loki's lips and cheeks are red and his eyes are all but black. His forehead is damp and some of his curls are clinging to it. When Thor goes still, Loki's ribs rise to meet his lips with the rhythm of Loki's breaths, and when Thor sinks his lips to Loki's sternum he can feel the pounding of Loki's heart kissing him through the bone.

Thor follows Loki's center line down with his lips, descending along the depression between the abs until he comes to the navel, where he pauses for deep swirling kisses and gentle flicking licks. He can smell the faint musk of Loki's fur mingled with the sweet perfume of soap and the salt of clean sweat - and something else that Thor doesn't have a name for. He kisses the lower curve of the belly and the peaks of the hips. Kisses the V that runs to the groin, knowing Loki's testes lie buried somewhere along those lines. Dips his head and mouths the furry lips that flank Loki's prick and sees Loki's hips tip up to meet him as Loki's legs fall apart. Thor shifts so that he's kneeling between the impossibly long limbs, then twists and bends to kiss stripes up the insides of the thighs. He lowers his head over Loki's hips, looking up at Loki's face again and finding Loki's lips parted and his eyes wide.

“Anything you know you don't like?” Thor asks, and tips his head to rest his cheek on Loki's pubic hair while he waits.

“Don't bend my cock too far back toward my belly. And I can't take much stretching or pressure in the pouch.”

Thor nods. He lifts his head and dips his chin, then pouts his lips and presses a weightless kiss on the tip of Loki's prick. It's blushing and firm, pressing up to meet him. There's the unmistakable musk of cock, with a sharper scent below. He tilts his head to lay kisses along the shaft, seeing the folds of the foreskin and then feeling them drag against his lips. Perhaps two inches, all told, and much of it is nestled in fur. Thor draws circles around it with his tongue, letting the sides of the wet muscle drag against the delicate skin and hearing Loki moan above him as his narrow hips thrust up. Thor can't bear to tease him. He puckers his lips and then sucks Loki's cock between them, descending to the base and breathing in fur, then pulling back, swirling his tongue around Loki's length all the while and hearing Loki curse and pant. He can see the muscles in Loki's stomach flexing. He can feel the tension in Loki's legs where they're pressed against his own. Thor keeps bobbing his head and then begins to hum a continuous moan into Loki's skin until Loki stiffens and cries out, again and again. Thor goes still and lets Loki thrust into his lips until the orgasm has largely subsided. He parts his lips to release Loki's prick, then sets his thumbs on the lips surrounding the pouch and gently parts those, too. He sees dark red flesh, ripe with blood vessels. There are fat ropes of white come pooling in the base of the glistening pocket, thicker than Thor's own semen and far more opaque. Strawberries and cream. Thor can see where the faintest trickle of fluid is still dripping from the opening in the top of the pouch. He leans in to breathe in the scent and then slowly drags his tongue through the tender vessel, scooping up the semen and rolling it around in his mouth before swallowing. Then he licks back into Loki's body to collect the drops he missed and to caress the satiny skin.

Loki sounds like he just found religion. A steady chant of, “Oh God, Thor. Oh my God,” has been passing through his lips.

Thor hums and mouths at the soft skin of Loki's thighs, then leans up slightly to meet Loki's dazzled gaze.

“All right?” Thor smiles, and Loki beams at him and falls back against the pillow, grinning.

Thor tugs the sheets up over both of them and settles in to let Loki rest in warm arms and afterglow.

Loki wants to stay awake. To keep taking it all in. This marvelous life of his. This day he's been trying not to dream about for over a decade. This impossible man. Thor's body is both solid and yielding around him, binding him sweetly with smooth skin and plump limbs. The salt in their sweat and the scents of their sex are mingling in the air to make a perfume that smells like the sea. Loki remembers Venus again, long and soft and naked, looking out with a gaze that makes you think it is she who's been waiting for you and not the other way around. When Loki looks, all he can see is Thor's throat. He has his head tucked beneath Thor's chin. Thor's Adam's apple is blurred, but the edges of his neck are in focus and Loki can see the skin fluttering there, undulating with each beat of Thor's heart. Loki's breath is loud in his own ears as the sound is bounced back at him by the tiny amphitheater of Thor's suprasternal notch. Their breathing is offset: Thor exhaling as Loki inhales, as if their ribs are politely stepping out of each other's way at every intake of breath. The interplay of all these rhythms is hypnotic. It's a bit like being in a well-lit golden womb, so Loki never really stands a chance. He falls asleep as Thor's fingers play in his hair.

When Loki wakes, he asks if Thor will jerk off onto him while he stays on his back in bed. Loki wants to see the way Thor touches himself. Wants Thor to get him all wet. Wants to watch semen spurt and dribble out the head of that fat prick. Thor is happy to oblige. Loki is relieved as he watches: it really is just a bigger version of what he has, especially in terms of how it likes to be touched. And Thor is so beautiful, with his lower lip bitten between his teeth and his brows done up in a little knot. His bright eyes blinking and twinkling down. His broad chest reddening with a flush and gleaming faintly with sweat. Loki is surprised by how thin and translucent Thor's semen looks where it's streaked across his chest. When he drags his fingers through it and puts them in his mouth he finds that it tastes like a watered down version of his own.

After another nap, Loki wants a lesson in giving head, and learns that he's quite good at ignoring his gag reflex when he has a throat full of Thor's throbbing cock. He also becomes obsessed with Thor's balls. Novelty perhaps in part; he has nothing comparable, since his own testes are still up inside his body. But Loki thinks Thor's bollocks might be objectively and universally desirable. They're full and perky. Not overly furry. A lovely peachy pink hue like the rest of him. And the way the skin of the scrotum swirls around them is reminiscent of the eddies of water that get trapped in pools by the receding tide. Loki is flabbergasted when Thor confesses he can't feel it.

Sunday requires a bit of dicking around online to do some shopping and some research. The purchase is a set of graduated butt-plugs, because Loki would very much like to have Thor's cock up his arse some day, but it's going to take a bit of doing, and he doesn't want to waste any time getting started. The research leads to Loki's deft right index finger playing Thor's prostate like a fiddle until Thor is crying and coming all over himself. Loki rewards the rather magnificent display by leaving perfect red rings of bite-imprints around Thor's nipples.

Thor spends ten minutes brushing his teeth as he stares at the marks in the mirror. He shows his gratitude by sucking Loki's cock, licking out his pouch, and then eating Loki's arse, all while Loki sighs and writhes and sometimes giggles.

On Monday, Loki lets himself into his parents' house at one in the afternoon and is surprised to find his father in the kitchen, washing up the dishes he dirtied during lunch.

“Nothing on today, then?” Loki asks, bending over to greet the dog once she's done running around in circles.

“Shoot was at sunrise,” Jan says.

“Brutal.”

“Well?”

“Well what?” Loki murmurs, grinding his knuckles into Ruffy's ear as she drives her skull against his fist with all her weight.

“All right?” Jan asks.

“Couldn't work,” Loki sighs, shaking his head patting the dog before standing up straight and staring out the back windows into his mother's gardens.

Jan tosses the towel on the counter and walks closer, looking worried. He's confused by the combination of Loki's words, the smile on his face, and the languid tone of his voice.

“Kept writing our names over and over. Hyphenating Hall-Falk. And Falk-Hall. Dropping one or the other. Thor and Loki Falk. Loki and Thor Hall. Couldn't settle on anything. Taking the day off. Can't stop being a complete tit.”

Loki turns his head and his face splits into a serene and self-deprecating grin as his eyes meet his father's. Jan exhales in relief.

“So he was...” Jan begins. “He didn't...”

“He was lovely, Dad. Perfect. He always is.”

Jan lets out a pleased hum, and then nods.

“Not just a pretty face?”

“Not by a long shot.”

“Good. You deserve it. I'd like to ring his folks and tell them they did a good job with that boy of theirs.”

“I know,” Loki agrees, and steps forward to pull his father into a hug. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“You did a good job with that boy of yours, too,” Loki breathes.

“Min glede.” My pleasure.

“Thanks for never letting them put me through surgery,” Loki whispers, as his fingers tighten in the fabric of his father's shirt.

“First, do no harm is their rule,” Jan murmurs, rubbing the top of Loki's spine. “We just made sure they followed it.”

“I had so much fun with him,” Loki marvels. “I'd no idea.”

“It is fun,” Jan agrees, clapping Loki on the back and jostling him in his arms. Kissing his cheek and running a hand down the back of his head. Smiling very wetly at him and giving his shoulders a final squeeze before he lets them go. “So, when will you be asking him round to a proper dinner?”

“Whenever you like,” Loki laughs. “Watch him, though - he'll steal the dog.”

“It's not theft if she follows him home. Actually, I think your mum's always fancied him a bit, too. She only started watching the news when he took over the weather.”

Loki smiles.

“Have plans with him tonight?”

“Nothing specific,” Loki says, going slightly pink.

“Ask him over. We'll cobble something together.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“All right,” Loki grins, and sends Thor a text.

Half an hour later, Jan flips on the telly.

“Your bloke will be on in a minute.”

He and Loki settle onto the sofa to watch as Thor tells them to bring their umbrellas with them if they go out tomorrow, because it will look all right in the morning, but it won't last. That they won't need to water their gardens until Sunday. That all their flat-ironing will be for naught this week, so they may want to embrace their natural curls. That procrastinators have until Tuesday night to get their spring cleaning done.

“Christ, he can't stop grinning either,” Jan laughs, nudging Loki's ribs. “Look at that.”

Loki goes red, but he can't tear his eyes away from the smiling face on the screen.

  
  
  
  



End file.
